


The Personal Storm of John Watson

by TheBritishBourbon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, Coma, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock, Mind Palace, Mystery, car crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3575042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBritishBourbon/pseuds/TheBritishBourbon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a car crash, Sherlock is left injured and in hospital in a coma. John is there with him through everything, especially when it turns out an accident may not have been an accident at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Storm Brews

 

John had been at the surgery when the call came through. The call that would seemingly stop his heart and send it into overdrive at the same time. The storm that was battling on outside his office window was now mirrored in him; the thunder reverberating in his head, the lightning cracking in his mind every time the reality of the call came to the surface of his terror. John had fought in the desert, watched his best friend die, and had been almost blown apart by a bomb more times than a man should be in life. But when the words Sherlock Holmes, hospital, and car crash came to his ears, terror took its hold, and John lost himself.

                            ***

Reason and clear mindedness surfaced in the cab he was taking to the hospital, emerging out of the spattering rain hitting the window of the cab. A cab. That was apparently what Sherlock had been in when the lorry had come careening into its side, the tempest destroying any sight the lorry driver could have had of the cab. The thought that John was now travelling in what, oh god, might be Sherlock’s death carriage made John sick.

His hands and curled and uncurled into fists on his lap he travelled on through the storm, on through the uncaring populous of London, to face his own private tempest.

                      ***

John’s hands clenched and unclenched in his lap as he sat on the plastic chair of the waiting room, its hardness reflecting the cold, hollow feeling settling in his chest, that premature feeling that Sherlock was already gone. His was, of course, irrational; Sherlock was in surgery, which was all he knew. Yet, maybe that was what made it worse; John was so used to being on the other side of this; the ignorance was killing him.                                

                                                     ***

It was not long, or maybe it was; John’s sense of time was as wild as the storm that raged on outside, until a bustling ball of worried energy appeared in the form of Mary. Her face was without make-up, making her pure fear even more evident.

Her smell was intoxicatingly pleasant as John embraced her tightly, letting some of his worry seep out as their love over-powered it, and when they broke away his mind felt more clear than it had in hours.

“How is he?” Mary asked, brushing away and invisible nothing from John’s jacket.

John shook his head, “I don’t know. He’s been in surgery for about…” he looked at the clock, the element of time returned to him, “Four hours. So, you know, it’s probably not...” he trailed off, swallowing tersely.

“John, this is Sherlock; you know how strong he is.” Mary reminded him, looking deep into his eyes.

“Yeah,” he muttered. That was brave of her; brining up memories of the last time Sherlock had been in hospital; when she had shot him. _‘No, no John. That’s a; in the past. Stop, you have forgiven her.’_

He took a deep breath and resumed his waiting, this time with the soft hand of his wife in his won, harbouring him to the bay as the storm raged on.

                                                ***

It was another three hours until they were allowed to see Sherlock, before they even had news of him. In that time Mycroft himself had arrived, wearing a look of strong discomfort, the closest, John thought, he could get to worry.

They were led to intensive care, the doctor giving Sherlock’s condition report to Mycroft officially, but really to John and Mary also, who followed on not even a metre behind. Sherlock had not been lucky. The lorry had managed to pin him into the cab, and it had taken the fire service too long to cut him out, in which time he had bled out profusely, and had already coded once on the table. His left arm had suffered severely; something had sliced into it deeply. The same was to be found on his left side. One of his legs was broken in two places, and other minor injuries, such as bruises and cuts were abound. His head had suffered a harsh, but not fatal, blow. Sherlock had a concussion as a result. All this, though, did not mean anything to John compared to the doctor’s final, felling blow. Comatose. Sherlock was comatose. A _coma_. The storm in John’s mind raged on once again.

                               ***

Mycroft, of course, had been the first into Sherlock’s private room to see him, but he insisted John come in when he felt ready, being Sherlock’s emergency contact and best friend.  Of course John had given him a few minutes, partly so he could be alone with his younger brother and partly because he had to prepare himself. Mary said she would wait outside until he needed her. John nodded numbly, taking harsh breaths through his nose before, finally, he entered.

Like the current of the sea, the constant beep of the heart monitor lulled John’s senses into focussing on one thing; Sherlock. Sherlock, who lay completely still on the bed, there was not even the twitching of eyelids or fingers to give John any sign he was still alive. Only the rise and fall of his chest and the rhythmic beeping was John’s saviour. John had, being a army doctor, seen far more horrific injuries, but the sight of his best friend lying so pale, oxygen prongs in his nose, stitches on his forehead, left arm strapped to his chest in a sling, and his left leg elevated slightly in its protective cast seemed to him as though there was nothing worse. And the fact that Sherlock was in a _coma_ , an unassisted _coma_ , made him want to cry and throw up at the same time.

John barely noticed the presence of Mycroft, who stood stiffly and pale with unprecedented shock on one side of the bed, as he approached Sherlock’s frozen form. He grabbed a pale hand, careful not to pull out the IV line, and squeezed it tight, his heart plummeting as he felt how cold his friend was.

“Sherlock,” his voice came out as a croak. He cleared it and tried again, “Sherlock, I’m so sorry this happened. I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you, but I’m here now.” John knew that most of the time coma patients could hear things around them, and he also knew Sherlock would probably be rolling his eyes in his mind. Then again, Sherlock might not be aware of anything; he was receiving morphine for the pain, which would make it harder for Sherlock to hear John. Still, John was doing this for himself as well.

“Sherlock, you have to wake up from this, okay? I don’t care if your bloody mind palace might be more interesting than reality; you need to wake up. It’s your birthday soon, you can’t miss that.” John knew Sherlock couldn’t care less about his birthday, probably didn’t even know how old he would be, but John had to give the man something to motivate him to wake, even if it looked like Sherlock had no idea he was there, talking to him, as still and unmoving as before.

John took a deep breath, bracing himself with his other hand against the bed. Mycroft watched him the whole time, swallowing every so often. “I’ll be here okay? For as long as I’m able to be, I will be here with you. Or Mary will, or Mrs Hudson.  And I’m sure Molly will probably want to visit. How does that sound, hmm?” his friend’s pale face remained lax, none of the usual air of self-righteousness around him, just a bruised, sunken faced nothingness.  John squeezed his hand one more time before placing it gently back on the bed covers.

He turned to faced Mycroft then, face ashen and eyes suspiciously wet. Sherlock’s older brother looked him over with that knowing look, something like a cross between gratitude and jealously in his eyes. “You meant what you said, I presume? You will be here when you can?”

John nodded stiffly, straightening his back, “Of course. We might even be lucky; the git might wake up soon and save us all the worry.” _‘Although I highly doubt Sherlock would be that un-dramatic’_

Mycroft snorted slightly, “That would be rather too convenient, I think, John…..and anyway, the doctor said there was no way of knowing when Sherlock would wake up.” Mycroft looked down at his little brother then, and for the first time John saw pure, clear worry on his face. The iceman was melting.

“Thank you, John. I am eternally grateful for your continued support to my brother, even after all these years.”

At Mycroft’s words, the violent storm in John’s mind abated somewhat, beating back and forth like the current of Sherlock’s beating heart.

                                                                                ***

And so John was there for Sherlock, was there until he couldn’t be there anymore; until visiting hours were over or he was coaxed away by Mary to come home and get some sleep, so he could come back the next day and start his day of sitting next to Sherlock all over again. Sometimes he would read to him, newspapers or novels which Sherlock would have no interest in whatsoever, but had no choice in what was read to him, seeing as he was in a coma. Or sometimes John would just talk to him about everyday life and old cases, trying to draw Sherlock out of his mind. Sometimes he would just sit there and hold his hand for hours, listening as the storm outside battled on, leaves slapping against Sherlock’s window every now and then, frightening John from his own private tempest of thoughts.


	2. A Birthday in Bed

Mrs Hudson visited the day after Sherlock’s accident; John was there with her, having taken leave off work for the near future, claiming he had family issues (which, by hell, he did have).  She had brought with her a bunch of garishly pink roses, intending for them to add colour to Sherlock’s stark hospital room.

The moment John opened the door to Sherlock’s room she welled up, hand going to her mouth and swallowing her sob.

“Oh, John,” She whispered, “he looks… horrendous.”

John put a hand on her shoulder as they came to stand next to the bed, its occupant as still and pale as the day before. “I’m sure he’d be flattered to hear you say that, Mrs H.” his attempt at trying to lighten the situation was futile.

Mrs Hudson sniffed, giving him a half-reprimanding, half-thankful look before sitting down hesitantly on the side of the bed, hip at a comfortable angle for her, and placing one hand on Sherlock’s forehead, running her hand through his untamed hair.

“Hello, dear.” She said softly, “John told me all about your dreadful accident….oh I wish it had been someone else but you, Sherlock! I know it sounds horrible, but really…you don’t deserve this.” The older woman was sobbing now, handbag and flowers forgotten on the bedside table as she continued to stroke Sherlock’s hair whilst the detective lay still on the bed, unresponsive to Mrs Hudson’s lament.

John stood watching the scene, the rain outside the windows adding to the depressing drama he was witness to. He felt like crying. He hardly ever felt like crying. Trust Sherlock to bring him to that. He approached the bedside table, putting the roses carefully in the spare vase on the top. He watched discreetly out the corner of his eye as Mrs Hudson’s tears receded and he quickly pulled a tissue out from her handbag, passing it to her with a warm look.

“Thank you, dear.” She muttered, turning away from Sherlock and dabbing at her eyes.

“He’ll be alright, Mrs H.” John tried to reassure her. And himself. “His readings are alright for his condition, and he will hopefully make a full recovery from his injuries, but…”

She stared up at him with sadness. “You don’t know when he will wake up?”

John shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

There was no real reason why Sherlock was in a coma, the drugs would have kept him under for a large while but this deep sleep was unassisted by medicine, and the doctor had told John it was only a matter of waiting.

“You have to wake up, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson whispered, turning back to Sherlock and grabbing his hand this time. “We all need you so much. John needs you.”

John swallowed tightly. Behind him, thunder clapped and lightening flashed, and the rain fell even heavier.

                                                                                      ***

Sherlock didn’t receive a great number of visitors over the first week of his comatose state, but those who did visit came regularly. Greg would appear every two days, and Molly visited twice, hands twisting in her lap and she stared at Sherlock, not looking scared of his condition, but more….unsettled. It must have been strange seeing someone she fixated on for so long lying slack and pale in a hospital bed, stitches on his forehead and bruises fading, instead of being the energetic man she knew him to be. Mycroft appeared only once since the day of the accident; his job too time-consuming to allow him more time with his brother. Although, John doubted Sherlock would really have wanted Mycroft sitting with him while he slept.

John was there almost all the time, only taking breaks to go to the cafeteria for a cardboard tasting meal, home to sleep, or braving it outside in the ever raging storm for a bit of fresh air. There were literally rain clouds over John’s head.

Mary was as supportive as ever, offering to sit with Sherlock if John needed a break, though he was reluctant to. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Mary with Sherlock, even after all the Magnussen business, it was much more that he felt Sherlock was as safe as he could be when John was there. His best friend was there to protect him, help him through this mess, when he wasn’t there before; to stop all this from happening.

                                                                                           ***

It was exactly a week after the accident when Sherlock’s birthday came around. John was surprised to realise he had no idea how old the detective was, and neither did Lestrade, apparently, when the detective inspector visited in his lunch break.

“John,” was his greeting after pushing open the door, breaking John from his daydream, the beeping monitor lulling him into a dazed state. John nodded, peering at Sherlock’s readings; no change.

“Happy Birthday, Sherlock.” Greg said, taking the seat John willingly evicted, needing to stretch his legs. “Must suck to be in hospital on your birthday, hey? Though I doubt you’d even gave a-” Lestrade broke off, a faint hearted laugh leaving his lips. John smiled from the corner of the room; Lestrade looked at him with a shrug. John agreed, Sherlock really didn’t care about his birthday; _‘Why is the inevitable aging of my body a cause for celebration, John?’_

Lestrade didn’t stay for long, only stopping to wish Sherlock a happy birthday and update John on the enquiry into Sherlock’s accident; he had been kind enough to request that he look into it personally, seeing as he knew the victim. Well, all of Scotland Yard knew the victim.

“It looks like the lorry driver may have pulled out thinking the road was clear, not knowing that the cab was there; the weather would have made it extremely difficult to see, and the driver has told us his eyesight isn’t exactly spectacular. It’s as straight forward as you thought, John; just a pure accident.”

“Any news on the cab driver?” John asked, coming forward to stand by Lestrade’s chair. He realised, without guilt, that he had no idea what had happened to the other occupant of the cab.

“He’s sustained some serious injuries, but should recover with time.”

John nodded, sadly, looking toward Sherlock in the bed. It made him thunder inside with a selfish, uncaring anger that his best friend was the only one to be left so….completely damaged by the accident. The one thing that appeased him was that Sherlock had not suffered some great injury to his head, so that if- _when_ he woke up, he would still be the Sherlock everyone knew and….well, mostly despised (but that didn’t matter, John would be happier than one hundred people put together.)

Greg coughed heartily before rising from his seat with a loud scrape of the chair legs on linoleum tiles.

“Well, mate, Many Happy Returns and all that. Wake up and maybe we can have a proper party, yeah? Get you drunk again. That would be a great night for us all.”

John laughed breathlessly as he sat on the edge of the bed and shook Greg’s hand, so very grateful for his joking demeanour; it lightened the mood somewhat, easing off the clouds in John’s mind.

Greg patted Sherlock lightly on the shoulder before leaving, careful of his injuries. Sherlock did not respond, but Lestrade composed himself well and left looking stronger than John had felt over the past week. John grabbed his best friend’s hand once more, looking down at him from his position on the edge of the bed.

“Happy Birthday, mate.” His words were as sincere as he could make them, and, for a moment, the sun broke through the clouds outside, and a harsh yet rejuvenating light illuminated the room.

                                                                                ***

Mycroft visited in the late afternoon, when the sun had once again disappeared behind its cloudy prison and the grey sky turned to a murky black. Mrs Hudson had been and gone, bringing with her this time vibrant yellow roses and a homemade chocolate cake, which John shared with her, Mary and Molly, when they had both visited at the end of their shifts. All three women had left soon after, Mary with a kiss to John’s cheek and then to Sherlock’s, Molly with a squeeze of Sherlock’s hand and Mrs Hudson with a maternal hand to Sherlock’s forehead, caressing it lightly.

John had been reading Sherlock the newspaper when Mycroft came striding into the room without warning, making John jump and turn in his chair, visibly relaxing when he realised who it was.

“I wondered if you’d be coming today. I owe myself five pounds.” He remarked as Mycroft strode round to the other side of the bed, umbrella tapping the ground, and pulled up a chair, seating himself across from John and laughing softly at John’s quip.

“My brother is in hospital in a coma, John, and it is his anniversary of birth, it seemed an ample time for me to visit.”

John snorted softly, a smile gracing his lips. “Right.”

The two sat in a silence only interrupted by the beeping if the heart monitor and the slashing of rain drops against the window, the two sounds clashing terribly. Mycroft watched his brother’s still and sleeping face for a while, face as stone-like and impassive as ever, though John could see a similar storm to his own lurking in the ice man’s eyes. The doctors had pulled the stitches on Sherlock’s forehead the other day, along with the ones on his left arm and side, and Mycroft observed the forming scar by the hairline with keen interest. _‘Probably deducing something from it’_ , John thought.

“How old actually is he today?” John suddenly asked, remembering his ignorance towards the fact.

Mycroft sat up a little in his chair. “He is Thirty Six.” He said matter of factly, and John was a little surprised at how sure Mycroft was, how he hadn’t even hesitated. Thirty six. John was only a few years older than him, and the fact made him feel even more protective of Sherlock, and he grabbed his best friend’s hand for a moment, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles. Mycroft watched with a mixture of sadness and approval on his face. It looked strange on his haughty face.

“I’ll give you some time alone with him.” John said a moment later, placing Sherlock’s hand back on the bed and rising from his chair, massaging his shoulder as he left for the cafeteria.

                                                            ***

When the door shut behind John, Mycroft was once again left with the only the company of the heart monitor and the rain to break his silence. He sighed as he contemplated his little brother lying slack and still in the bed. In a weird sentimental way of feeling he’d hardly experienced before, he felt sadness creep into his calculating mind when he saw his brother’s bruises and the dark shadows under his eyes and the oxygen prongs in his nose.

He had never been once for physical affection, feeling much more comfortable watching John give his brother the physical stimulus that would help him come out of this. But now, in this moment, when he was alone and Sherlock was, hopefully, not aware he was doing so, he grabbed his brother’s hand and held it tightly, if a little awkwardly. _‘Oh lord, he’s most likely laughing at me internally,_ ’ Mycroft thought with bitter mirth.

Well, in revenge, he thought it suiting Sherlock got a large surprise for his birthday. He had been in this coma for a week now, and Mycroft knew that this was never a good thing, even though he had full confidence in his Brother’s recovery. Still, he knew it was time his parents were told, and that they should visit.

“Happy Birthday, brother mine.” He said, smiling. Ah yes, annoying Sherlock. Now that was a much more comfortable action.


	3. Parental Concern

John felt he was being submerged, the rain clouds in his mind constantly on downpour, the ever present nagging worry, like a moth fluttering around his brain, increased in tempo as the week-milestone passed and Sherlock’s chances of waking dropped considerably. No one, not even the doctors at the hospital, knew why Sherlock was comatose. They had given him an MRI scan the day after his birthday, but the results were inconclusive. John had sighed, sinking into the chair next to Sherlock’s bed, staring at his best friend with half-annoyance, and half-desperation. _God_ , even he hadn’t realised how much he missed Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock was right there next to him, lying on the bed, but there was almost nothing to him. None of his personality; his haughtiness, his self-confidence, his…. _Sherlock-ness_. He didn’t even twitch. Didn’t stir when the nurses shaved him, and didn’t rouse when they changed his sheets. It was odd; even though John had seen many a coma patient before, he had never thought Sherlock would achieve such stillness. He really wished he hadn’t.

                                                                                        ***

The Holmes parents came on a dreary Tuesday afternoon into the second week of Sherlock’s coma. John had been stretching by the window, and swung round speedily when the door opened, arms dropping and shoving his jumper down in embarrassment from where it had risen up.

“John! Oh, it’s lovely to see you dear!” Mrs Holmes came bustling in, preying on John, who came forward and kissed her cheek, his own cheeks a little red.

“Mrs Holmes, Mr Holmes,” He turned to Sherlock’s father, who gave him a weak smile and shook his hand just in the way Sherlock did.

“Oh, John, thank you so much for being here with him, Mycroft’s told us you’ve hardly left!” Mrs Holmes had proceeded to the bedside of her youngest son, gasping slightly and sitting down on the edge facing Sherlock, while Mr Holmes stood at the end of the bed, grasping the rail tightly with both hands and staring at his son with a tender and sorrowful look.

“Well, I didn’t want him to be….”

“Alone.” Mrs Holmes said quietly, looking up at John despondently, one hand on Sherlock’s arm and the other in his hair, carding it with her fingers in soft circles.

John just coughed and nodded. Mrs Holmes beamed at him, while Mr Holmes continued to stare at his son’s sleeping form, somewhat hypnotised by it. The worry of the two parents was palpable, settling like clouds in the room just how the ones settled in John’s mind. The whole experience was suffocating, and John thought it best to leave them with Sherlock in privacy.

He tried backing out slowly, not wanting to attract attention to himself as Sherlock’s parents focussed solely on their son, Mr Holmes’s right hand now resting on Sherlock’s foot, squeezing his toes tightly, while Mrs Holmes fussed around like a storm herself, flaky mannerisms coming through as she straightened Sherlock’s bed covers, assessed the stitches and bandage on his arm and delicately traced the scar on his forehead.

“Oh, Sherlock, you silly boy, look at your hair!” She exclaimed as John reached the door, smiling faintly at the sight of Sherlock’s mother trying to flatten his best friend’s unruly hair. “It makes you look unkempt, _young man_!”

Mr Holmes huffed, smiling softly at his wife. “It’s always been that way, dear.”

The situation was so endearing that the rainclouds seemed to disperse from the room for a moment, and John’s head felt clearer than it had for days.

He sucked in a breath, opening the door and backing out slowly. “I’m just going to go to the cafeteria so you can have some time with him,” he announced.

Mr Holmes looked up long enough to give John a grateful look, his wife now straightening the tape on Sherlock’s cheek keeping the oxygen prongs in place. “Thank you, John.” He paused, “Really, we’re very grateful.”

“Oh, I wish Mycroft had told us sooner about this dreadful mess!” Mrs Holmes exclaimed, finally satisfied Sherlock’s comfort was up to her standards. “He’s outside the room by the way, John, if you wanted to have a word.”

John internally scoffed, _‘Just one word from Mycroft? That would be the day.’_

“Great. Thanks.” He said out aloud, leaving the Holmes parents alone with their youngest son.

                                                                               ***

Just like Mrs Holmes had said, Mycroft was stood right outside Sherlock’s private room, umbrella idly balanced in his hands and his haughty head held high. He calmly turned to John as he closed the door shut behind him, regarding him with a look as piercing as Sherlock’s.

“John,” he greeted, “Let us go to the cafeteria, there are some matters I must discuss with you.” He started walking without giving John a choice, and, reluctantly and with a sigh and a straightening of the shoulders, the shorter man followed.

                                                                                 ***

“How are _you_ , John?” Mycroft asked as soon as they were sat down at an uncomfortable plastic table on uncomfortable plastic chairs, vile coffee in Styrofoam cups placed in front of them.

John frowned at this question, wondering if he’s heard right. “ _Me_? I’m…..fine.”

Mycroft gave a look that obviously said _‘I know you’re just saying that.’_

“What?” John asked, sighing. He really didn’t need this from Mycroft, not now.

“The only places you’ve been in the past week and a two days is this hospital and yours and Mary’s residence. Your shoulder is feeling somewhat uncomfortable and you haven’t slept well for a long time, a combination of worry for my brother, and the baby. How is little……?”

“Elizabeth.” John answered numbly, a little taken aback at Mycroft’s bluntness. _‘But what did I expect?’_ “She’s well, yeah, she’s…” he coughed, sitting up a little.

Mycroft never took his eyes off him. “And Mrs Watson? I’m sure it must be upsetting for her not seeing you very often; it seems you spend almost all day here, and only return to your home when the nurses insist on your leaving for the night.”

John could feel storm clouds brewing in his mind once again, this time a spattering of anger shooting through them like oncoming lightening, ready to strike the elder Holmes brother.

“Mary is much more honourable than that, Mycroft. She doesn’t mind my being here with Sherlock one bit. And you seemed pretty happy to let me stay with him until he wakes nine days ago, Mycroft. Why this sudden interest in my affairs?”

Mycroft didn’t as much as flinch. “I am merely seeking after your welfare since my brother is not able to, John. I’m sure Sherlock would give me a thorough dressing down if he knew I was letting you run yourself down for him.”

John was once again taken aback, not quite sure if Mycroft’s reason was genuine. He knew Mycroft cared, _of course_ he did, but that he would bother himself with others for Sherlock’s sake…….John was too tired for this.

“Your concern and generosity is touching, Mycroft, but I assure you Mary and I are coping very well at the moment with all of….this,” he waved his hand in the air to emphasise the greatness of the current situation, “Elizabeth goes to Mrs Hudson when Mary has to work, and Mary doesn’t mind looking after Elizabeth in the evenings. She prefers her mother anyway.” John tried a joke, but it went unnoticed by Mycroft.

“But do you not miss spending more time with your daughter, John?”

John opened his mouth to speak, looking like a goldfish as he did so. Mycroft smirked slightly, though John had no idea why. “Of course I do….” He managed to stutter out finally, the lightening doubling in his mind at Mycroft’s suggestion that he didn’t miss _his own daughter_. God he wished he could bring Elizabeth with him sometimes, hold her in his arms and feel her utter solidness and _existence_. Maybe he could one day _._ “I’m just making sure she has her godfather when she needs him.” he answered with finality, and Mycroft seemed satisfied, nodding his head in agreement, expression unreadable and taking a sip of his coffee. John followed.

“Thank you, John. I apologise for my little interrogation but I had to make sure you’d be on board with what I have to suggest next.”

John narrowed his eyes in suspicion, placing his cup back on the table and crossing his arms in front of his chest, indicating for Mycroft to continue.

“I have been told by Sherlock’s doctor that there is no reason for my brother’s comatose state, not physically anyway. Mentally, however, it is possible there might be some damage.”

John felt himself pale, rain clouds freezing up with shock, snow now clouding his mind for a change. “Oh god, do you mean…?”

Mycroft suddenly looked slightly alarmed. “Oh, good lord, no, no, I did not mean he may be brain damaged; the MRI scan would have picked up on that.”

John shook himself, suddenly feeling very silly. _‘I knew that, I saw the readings myself…god I need to sleep.’_ He scolded himself for thinking Mycroft had this superior and godlike knowledge on matters because of his bleeding great intellect.

“Yeah, of course.” He said hoarsely.

Mycroft leaned on the table, steepling his hands under his chin. “I’m suggesting that Sherlock may be stuck inside his _‘mind palace’_.”

John raised his eyebrows at that, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward in his chair. “ _What?_ ”

“Sherlock’s mind, like mine, is a complex thing. Sometimes things can get jumbled; memories or facts. What I am saying is that the impact of the crash may have caused him to….slip and fall, shall we say? Fall into his mind palace, where he is lost, and cannot get out unless given help to find his way through his mind.”

John nodded, trying to take in this information. He knew of people being stuck in their minds before, but Sherlock seemed to be so in control of his Mind Palace, always giving it maintenance; it was strange to think he may be ‘stuck’ in something of his own creation.

“But….how do we…draw him out?” John asked, suddenly feeling a determination bursting through his clouds, lightening transforming into sun beams of hope.

“That, John, is up to you.” Mycroft replied, looking knowledgeable and with full confidence at John. It was rather stress inducing.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that you might just be the key to getting Sherlock back; you and your….. _blog._ ”

John made an ‘O’ of realisation, nodding once. “Right okay, so you want me to…?”

“To do whatever you think will bring Sherlock out of this, John. After all, you are his closest friend, and _shockingly_ prone to sentiment. You’ll think of something.”

                                                                                                ***

When John returned to Sherlock’s room, feeling somewhat awkward from his conversation with Mycroft, he opened the door quietly, not wanting to disturb Sherlock’s parents if they wanted privacy.

“That was when we bought you Redbeard, _lord_ knows we didn’t have an inkling what trouble you and that dog would cause, but you needed someone.” Mrs Holmes was speaking, sat on the left side of the bed whilst her husband sat on the right, stroking her hand over Sherlock’s cheek. They were both smiling sadly down at their son, who lay still and unresponsive between them. 

“We thought he would make you happier, he did for a bit, but….” Mrs Holmes trailed off, and Mr Holmes reached over a squeezed her vacant hand.

John didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, but the situation seemed very…...familial. Therefore he closed the door with a light _‘click’_ , feeling the sudden need to go and see his own family; Mary and Elizabeth, leaving Sherlock with the love of others for just one day.


	4. Little Lizzie

He hadn’t been in this room before, or, if he had, he certainly couldn’t remember it. It was exceedingly dark and void, making it extremely boring. And dull, he couldn’t forget dull. But it was also very unnerving.

It was illogical, highly odd: how could he have never been in this room if it was _his_ mind palace? And why did he feel so fatigued? Why was there a constant pulsing pain running through him? What had happened?

It was rather hard for him to delve deep into his mind palace when he was, in fact, already in it, in an unknown room that gave him no respite from the all consuming darkness. He couldn’t even discern how large it was, or where the door was, or if there even was a door.

Sherlock took in a deep breath, wincing slightly at how much it hurt. Oh god, everything hurt; his arms, his legs, his torso. His head was _pounding_. He gasped, mental breaths coming fast and rough. What the hell was happening?

                                                                                ***

Time was not relative in his mind palace, he wasn’t sure what was going on in the external world, and how long he had been trapped inside this dark abyss. He had tried, of course, to find the door, and the walls, but his footsteps led him to nothing. His shouts lost in the thick treacle darkness. This room in his mind was completely empty. Was this what it was like being Anderson?  He couldn’t fathom why he was here, he couldn’t think past the pounding in his head, and trying to keep control was a battle he was losing to the darkness, fear finally hitting him as he was left helpless to the situation.  He sank to his knees, lying down to cope with the pain in his body. He was so tired…maybe if he rested for a moment more he would have more energy to find a way out later…..

“ _’ And yeah, he is probably most likely definitely mad. But, he knows a couple of nice restaurants so he's not all bad,’_ Well, you can tell I had absolutely no idea what was to come!”

Sherlock’s head shot up, the pounding increasing but forgotten past his curiosity. That was John. Definitely John.

“’ _Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.’_ Ah, I remember when that insulted you. I’m still not sorry.”

John. Again. Talking to someone. To him?

“You’d better bloody be listening to me, Sherlock, cause I feel like a right twit every time a nurse walks in on me reading my own work.”

Yes, John was definitely talking to him. And reading him his…blog?

“ _’ He thinks he's found himself an arch-enemy.’_ Who would’ve known how much trouble that bastard would cause for us, eh?” 

Oh yes, that was definitely John’s blog.

 _‘Oh john, thank you,_ ’ he thought, smile gracing his lips as he struggled to his feet, pained groan issuing from his lips; this gave him something to work with, some way to work out what had happened to him.

                                                                             ***

Mycroft’s words had added to the torrent that was wreaking havoc on John’s mind, and the sharp guttural feeling of desperation tortured him constantly. The knowledge that apparently _he_ could do something to bring Sherlock out of this now almost two-week coma was a burden that brought the rain down ever harder. Mycroft had suggested the blog, and John had felt like a complete idiot reading out his own words to his comatose friend, having no idea whether Sherlock could hear him or not. He didn’t so much as twitch as John read him their first case, hoping this might instil some wakefulness in Sherlock, but no, Sherlock just had to be a difficult git and remain laying there, pale as ever, a slight fever running from the wound in his side, which the doctors had discovered looking slightly red and weepy the morning after Sherlock’s parents’ visit.  The rain in John’s mind had beaten harshly against his eardrums at the news, and the wind outside the hospital had shaken the windows viciously, making John feel trapped in his microcosm of despair.

It seemed that the reading of the blog wasn’t doing anything to drag Sherlock out of his coma, and John’s despair finally came to paramount on a blustery Friday afternoon in the second week, when Mary had come for a visit, bringing with her Elizabeth.

“It just feels like nothing is helping,” he lamented to his wife, bouncing his daughter up and down on his lap lightly. Elizabeth made little gurgles of pleasure at the action.

Mary looked down at Sherlock whilst John was speaking; the sleeping man positioned in the middle of them, with Mary sat by the left side of the bed and John the right. “Maybe he can’t hear you?” she suggested, “I just mean to say, you can never know with coma patients: some can, some can’t.” She added quickly, when John gave her a look that clearly said _‘thanks for the kind words of support.’_

“Hmm.” John said, mind drifting, trying to think of any other ways in which he could release Sherlock from this prison of sleep. He had read almost all of his blog posts, not including his pre-Sherlock’s return, post- Sherlock’s death posts, feeling talking about Sherlock being dead would not be the best subject to bring up for both of them.

On his lap, Elizabeth squirmed and reached out towards Sherlock on the bed, as if wondering why her godfather was so still, when all she normally saw of him was a fast-moving, bell-staff coated ball of energy. John peered down at his daughter curiously, when she appeared determined to get to Sherlock.

“John, be careful she doesn’t catch any hospital germs.” Mary warned as he perched himself on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, allowing Elizabeth in his arms to reach out and touch Sherlock’s hair. She had always liked it, clamping her podgy little hands down on the curly strands whenever Sherlock, _always_ reluctantly, picked her up. Now however, the little girl looked confused as to why her ‘Uncle Sherlock’ wasn’t reacting back, and she made a small groan of anguish.

“She won’t, Mary, he’s sweating because of his fever; it’s perfectly sterile in here.” John replied, watching his daughter with concern. “She doesn’t understand why he’s not reacting to her.” John muttered, as Sherlock just continued lying there; face looking slightly waxen, a thin sheen of sweat covering it. It made John incredibly sad.

Mary tutted at the sight, going into the adjoining bathroom and coming out a moment later with a damp cloth. “Can’t the doctors do anything about it?” She asked, placing the cloth on Sherlock’s forehead, eyes going wide. “He’s burning up.”

John took a deep breath, bracing himself as the storm burst over him, a gust of wind making him feel slightly dizzy. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to be overcome by the sudden wave of worry that hit him like a tsunami. The fact that someone else could see Sherlock’s suffering, his depleted state, made the situation seem all the more real, like John wasn’t just hallucinating all of this. The reality of it all made him feel slightly sick.

“He err…” his voice came out gruff, and he coughed to clear his throat, “He’s receiving antibiotics for it, we just have to wait for it to abate and the infection to clear up.”

Mary tutted again, pressing her hand firmer to Sherlock’s forehead in what John assumed was an act of comfort. Elizabeth in the meanwhile had removed her chubby hands from Sherlock’s hair and was currently tugging lightly on the tube of the oxygen prongs. John quickly but gently pulled her hand away, before she pulled Sherlock’s oxygen supply out.  He stared down sadly at his friend, a sudden wetness appearing in his eyes as the rain in his mind became the tears on his face, the raw emotions finally pouring out of him like a monsoon.

Mary soon noticed her husband’s sudden breakdown, and gently pulled Elizabeth out of his arms and into hers, the toddler grasping onto her Mother’s woollen sweater immediately. “Come on, Sweetheart, let’s give Dad some time alone with Uncle Sherlock, yeah?” she said gently, and touched John’s shoulder gently as she passed him. He stopped her to reach out for his daughter’s hand and kiss it lightly; giving Elizabeth the best smile he could muster.

“See you in a while, Little Lizzie.” He whispered. Mary gave him an encouraging smile before making her way quietly out of the room, gurgling toddler in her arms.

John sucked in another breath, putting a hand to the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the tears than were leaking down his face. This was the last thing he should be doing: it was possible that Sherlock could subconsciously pick up on his shaky mood and take a downturn.

“Oh, look at what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, taking his hand away from his face and peering through bleary eyes at his best friend, still perched on the edge of the bed. “This isn’t fair Sherlock; I’m getting the bum deal _again_. Why couldn’t you listen for once? Just once, hmm? I don’t know what else I’m supposed to try if the blog wasn’t enough…” he reached out to turn over the cloth on Sherlock’s forehead, the now exposed side feeling rather warm. He chuckled morosely, withdrawing his hand and putting in on his thigh to brace himself, “Then again, you never really liked it.”

Never before had John felt so helpless. The inkling of hope he had felt at Mycroft’s suggesting that memories might draw Sherlock out of this was drowning in the storm of despair, and John was beginning to believe he had never felt so desperate. The last time he had was when Sherlock had been ‘dead’. No, no, he couldn’t think of that, that trauma wasn’t going to occur again any time soon; Sherlock would wake up and he would be fine and life would be normal again. It would. This is what John had to tell himself to stop from being carried away by the hurricane.

                                                                           ***

The morning after John’s breakdown it dawned, for the first time in about three weeks, clear and bright, no rain clouds pattered constantly on his coat, and in his mind. This fresh start brought new life to him, and he felt rejuvenated with new hope, a new sense of determination to get Sherlock well and truly out of coma. If he had been thinking rationally, he would’ve reminded himself that there was no medical explanation for Sherlock’s coma, and so they had no idea what would truly help him surface from it. But those thoughts just wouldn’t do that morning.

                                                                                  ***

His reading of that morning’s newspaper was interrupted by a sharp rapping on Sherlock’s hospital room door, and John turned to see Greg enter looking distracted somewhat.

“Greg,” he said surprised, closing the newspaper and putting it on the bedside table, “I didn’t know you were visiting today.”

“Well, err, I wasn’t planning on it but……listen, John, we’ve just had a breakthrough into Sherlock’s case.”

John’s heart skipped a beat. The case had been open and closed within a week, a simple and pure accident. Why had there been a ‘breakthrough’?

“Well, what is it?” he asked with anticipation.

Greg hesitated, scratching the back of his prickly, grey head, and staring at the wan Sherlock in the bed; his fever still hadn’t broken. “John, we have reason to believe that the accident was intentional. That someone was out to kill Sherlock in that cab, on that road, at that moment deliberately.”

John just stared. The rain began to pour again.


	5. Searching through the rain

Sherlock couldn’t be sure how long it was since he had last heard John’s voice through the treacle thick darkness, but it felt he had lived through a lifetime by the time he heard it again. He was lying on the floor again, feeling uncomfortably hot and nauseous, when a sudden white light flashed burning and bright. Sherlock started, looking up. It was dark around him again, but the white light was imprinted on his retinas, distorting his vision and increasing his pounding headache.

 _“What evidence do you have?”_ that was John’s voice, sounding shocked and was that…angry?

He could hear another voice, too, but it was muffled, and he had to concentrate hard against his headache in order to discern the words. _“Analysed…..footage…mysterious….”_

Was that….Lestrade?

 _“What sort of mysterious behaviour?”_ John again, sounding angrier. Sherlock could imagine his fists curling and uncurling in his lap.

_“It would be easier…..it yourself…but without auth….”_

_“Well I’m sure one phone call to Mycroft Holmes and that will all be sorted out.”_

What was going on? Sherlock groaned in frustration; this was ridiculous! It was like he was tuning into a faulty radio that could only broadcast John! How in the hell was he supposed to help himself if he couldn’t focus properly? Sherlock groaned again, this time in pain as his head gave a particularly sharp lightening bolt of pain, the scorching pattern of the white light still not gone from his vision. He felt utterly useless in his helplessness.

                                                                               ***

John felt frozen. His hands were icy, shaking, not with fear, oh no, but with anger. Apparently someone had done this to Sherlock, hit him with a lorry, injured him and put him in a coma, on purpose. Greg had said they wanted to intentionally kill Sherlock, how he knew that John couldn’t be sure, but at the moment everything felt muffled by the downpour in his mind, ever stronger as John’s mood picked up in severity.

The shower in his mind abruptly stopped at the trilling sound of his mobile, and he quickly slipped out of the room to answer it, face steely when he saw the caller ID.

“Mycroft. You’ve heard, obviously.”

“Of course,” came the smooth reply, “I can imagine you must be feeling rather livid, John?”

“You bloody well know I am.” John stated angrily, receiving a reprimanding look from a passing nurse. “Mycroft, you’ve got to get me clearance to see the footage; I don’t care about all this legal malarkey, all I care about is knowing whether some bastard intentionally wanted Sherlock dead.”

“Please stop with the hysterics, John, I’ve already got someone clearing security for you and another should be delivering a recording to you quite soon.”

John frowned, “I could just go to Scotland Yard, Mycroft.”

He heard Mycroft take in a breath, “I believe it might be rather beneficial for my brother were he to remain present at each stage of this investigation, you know how he loves solving these little puzzles; solving his own would probably cause him to jump up and down. If he could.”

John raised his eyebrows, shocked, “ _Mycroft._ We don’t even know if he can hear me or not; how would he be able to concentrate enough to solve his own case when he’s in a _coma_?!”

“Don’t think my brother so mundane, John. With a brain like his how could it possibly stop processing data? Well, I say a brain like his when really his is rather slow compared to mi-“  
“Yes, alright,” John sighed, “I’ll go along with your little plan Mycroft, just because I’m bloody well desperate to get him out of this.”

John could practically hear Mycroft smirking, “I’m glad John. Do send my regards to my brother dear.”

The line went dead. John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Damn Mycroft Holmes when he had a valid point, as this might actually work.

                                                                                     ***

Returning to the serenity of Sherlock’s room John sat himself down upon his chair and leaned forward, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists in order to warm them up from the friction. He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, intertwining his own fingers with Sherlock’s sweaty digits to make maximum contact.

“Sherlock, if you can hear me, then I want you to listen to me very clearly. You’re in a coma because you were in an accident: a lorry went into the side of the cab you were travelling in.” John sighed, feeling like a complete and utter prat, “but now Greg thinks he’s found something, he thinks that the accident may not have been that at all, and that maybe this was done on purpose. Any idea who could have done that, hmm?” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand to give him some support, and to steady himself against another wave of anger. “Mycroft is sending ‘round a tape of the CCTV, try to concentrate on what you hear if you can.” John sighed again, leaning back. This was utterly ridiculous; the chances of Sherlock actually hearing him were….well, not even worth mentioning. What the _hell_ did Mycroft expect to happen?

                                                                                ***

_A plethora of rain decorated the street scene, as cars whooshed by from left to right; their windscreen wipers waving at the pedestrians on the busy street, all huddled under hoods and umbrellas. Directly front on from the camera a line of vehicles lay in waiting for the go, a red light the only thing stopping them from plummeting into the speeding cars from the left. Suddenly a pedestrian walked in front of the stationary vehicles, seeing it was clear to cross, but before he could a burly man dressed all in black ran out from a crowd of shoppers and grabbed his upper arm, forcing him back to the pavement._

“Now this is the first thing that struck me odd,” Said Greg, pausing the TV with a remote. They were in Sherlock’s room, late afternoon, with a portable television set placed opposite Sherlock’s bed. John and Greg stood either side of the bed watching the video intensely, John with his brow furrowed, jotting Greg’s words down on a notepad. “The pedestrian was safe to walk; there was no need for that man to pull him back.”

“…right”  
Lestrade continued the video: _the pedestrian and the man in black could be seen having an expressive discussion, the vehicles still lying in wait for their time to charge._ (‘sufficient time for the pedestrian to cross the road,’ thought John, jotting that down on his notepad) _suddenly from the left of the screen came a cab through the rain._

“That is Sherlock’s cab,” Greg paused the video again, pointing to the accused vehicle. The image was too grainy to make out the occupants of the cab, but John could just make out the outline of a passenger in the back: Sherlock. “Now watch the lorry at the front there, “Greg ordered John, now pointing to a lorry waiting to drive, the driver obscured by the rainfall.

_As Sherlock’s cab came onto the screen the lorry suddenly accelerated forward, and through the hazy fall of rain is pummelled into the side of the cab, knocking it off course so that it skidded and almost upturned. Cars started breaking, people started staring, and the lorry came to an uneasy stop, only slightly dented, where as the left side of the cab looked almost completely concave._

John sucked in a breath, and moved over to Sherlock, chucking his notepad at the end of the bed. He lifted the blanket and shirt covering Sherlock’s left side, and examined the still infected gash left from the accident. Seeing the actual incident made the whole situation even worse for John, sending dizzying gushes of icy wind through him in shock; the force of impact of the crash had been horrendous, could have killed Sherlock, and he was all at once thankful for Sherlock’s surviving it and dismayed that this had actually happened to his best friend.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he breathed, and Greg nodded his agreement. John replaced Sherlock’s shirt and blanket and gave his best friend’s shoulder a light squeeze before picking back his notepad and pen and rejoining Greg by the television.

“Can you see what I mean about it looking suspicious? We’ve got to assume that the man who stopped the pedestrian knew what the lorry was going to do, hence why he stopped the pedestrian in the first place…”

“…because he wanted to avoid any extra casualties apart from Sherlock.” John finished for him, nodding. This was so odd: they were crime solving without Sherlock; well, he technically _was_ in the room, but to John it felt like he wasn’t.

Lestrade continued the video: _the man dressed in black suddenly rushed towards the lorry, pulling open the door and helping another man out of the cabin. They both had their faces covered, hats covering their heads and coat collars up, making it hard to discern their facial features. The lorry driver ran off down the road and out of shot. The man in black raced over to the cab and past the crowd that was quickly forming. He shoved open the drivers door, helping out the driver. Then he shouted for something_ (an ambulance, John assumed, from the amount of people who suddenly got out their phones and started dialling) _, and practically dragged the cab driver away down the street after the lorry driver._

“That seems strange,” John piped up, writing his theories down on his notepad, “why would they drag out the cabbie….?”

Greg rolled his shoulders under his thick trench coat, “Well, we’ve got to assume that maybe the cabbie has something to do with this too.”

“Hang on,” John said, raising his pen from the pad, “You said the driver of the cab was injured too, and you can see how the other man was practically dragging him,” he pointed to the screen displaying the battered cab, the possible conspirators almost out of the shot, “but why would they risk injuring one of their own?”

Once again Greg rolled his shoulders back, looking strained, “Well, maybe that was a sacrifice they had to make: one of them would put himself in the firing line to get Sherlock,”

John stared at the screen, sighing heavily. But who exactly were _they?_

                                                                                  ***

Later, once Greg had gone, John took up his usual seat next to Sherlock and read him back his notes, making sure the detective knew every single piece of information he did on the case. When he had finished he spent a considerable amount of time just staring at Sherlock in what John could have called pity. But he knew Sherlock wouldn’t want him to pity him; _‘oh for god’s sake John, do stop with your feelings.’_

The man’s fever was still getting the better of him, and sweat stood out sharply on his brow, trickling with perverse gentleness, considering what damage it was causing to Sherlock, into his hairline. John reached over for the cloth resting in the bowl of cold water on the bedside table, dabbing gently at Sherlock’s forehead.

“I never thought I would say this,” he muttered to his best friend, “but I hope Mycroft is right.” He leaned forwards slightly, leaving his hand resting on the cloth lying on Sherlock’s brow. “Sherlock, if you can hear me, then please just help yourself, okay? ‘Cause I don’t know how much longer I can stand you being like this,” he took a deep breath, swallowing down the lump in his throat, grabbing Sherlock’s hand. “My daughter misses you, Sherlock. I don’t think you now how much she likes you, hell, I’m as surprised as you would be.” He chuckled to himself, Sherlock’s only response the slightly erratic beeping of the heart monitor. “I miss you too. And Mary. And Mrs Hudson. Even Mycroft does, I _think_ …..so do us all a favour and solve all of this out, hm? Please, if not for them, then for me.”

John paused, pulling away and blinking the tears out of his eyes. He kept Sherlock’s hand in his. It was improbable that Sherlock could hear, and if he could that he would understand how John was feeling. He knew he wasn’t treating Sherlock fairly, the man surely must understand John after all he had done for the army doctor, but John was an absolute wreck at the moment, the storm inside once again rising up, threatening to consume him.

                                                                                 ***

It wasn’t dark anymore, not exactly, but there was a half light that made discerning anything a difficult job for Sherlock, especially in his current state. He felt as though he was on fire, burning up viciously, sweat covering his face, a sharp pain radiating up and down his body with fervour as his heart raced. And it wasn’t just him but his Mind Palace: it felt like a furnace. He scrambled around on the floor, groaning at the effort it took to move but an inch. He needed something to hold onto, or he was going to smoulder away in the fire in his Mind Palace.

_“You’re in a coma because you were in an accident: a lorry went into the side of the cab you were travelling in.”_

Sherlock gasped, lifting his head with dizzying speed. That was John again. “ _John_ ,” he breathed. He forced himself to focus on John’s words past his relief at something familiar, almost homely. He was in a coma. A _coma_. He couldn’t help but sneer at himself, at how his own body had shut down on him. _That_ was why he was trapped in here, this solitary darkness.

_“Maybe this was done on purpose. Any idea who that could have been, hmm?”_

John again, with suggestions of a crime. Oh, now this was getting interesting. Sherlock heaved himself up onto one elbow, the heat filling his head. The darkness was lifting evermore, until he didn’t feel a disconcerting isolation anymore, but more grounded. He smiled to himself: finally, the game was back on.

                                                                                ***

 _“The lorry driver accelerated forwards and into your cab as soon as he saw it……..Lestrade believes the cabbie, the lorry driver, and the man on the street to be in on it together, that they wished to harm you but were willing to sacrifice themselves in order to do so, meaning there must have been malicious intent….”_              

John’s voice came again a while later, giving Sherlock more information. To his absolute irritation, the flames of what he could only assume was a fever were interfering with his ability to concentrate, and John’s words were fading in and out of coherence. Sherlock may have been a sociopath, but from the words he could hear John sounded wearisome and teary. He needed to show John he was still in there, fighting for himself and, he guessed, for John.

_“The impact of the lorry was enough to do serious damage to you and the cab….”_

Sherlock pulled himself up onto his other elbow, sucking in a breath as sweat trickled into his eyes.

_“You have serious gashes on both your left arm and your left side; the latter is what is causing you to have a fever which is being battled by antibiotics.”_

Sherlock pulled himself gradually to his feet, staggering a bit as he acclimatised to the new position. His head was shot through his lightening bolts and he groaned in pain.

 _“You also have a gash on your forehead, not too deep that is now scarring, and a broken leg, apart from that there was the obvious injuries you would expect from a crash like yours….”_  
  


Sherlock took uneasy steps, desperately trying to stop himself from collapsing. The darkness was thinning, and Sherlock could make out four walls, boxing him in. He searched desperately for a door.

_“Sherlock, if you can hear me, then please just help yourself, okay? ‘Cause I don’t know how much longer I can stand you being like this,”_

“I’m coming John,” he muttered, not caring how sentimental he sounded. Lights were beginning to flicker on, and he spotted the outline of a door right in front of him. He smiled in relief and made torturously slow steps towards it, each one costing him a horrendous amount of energy.

_“I miss you too.”_

He was getting nearer, the darkness turning to brightness almost painfully sharp. The fire inside him was nauseating, but still he carried on. For himself. And for John.

_“So do us all a favour and solve all of this out, hm?”_

He was so close, only a few steps. He raised his hand to reach for the sleek door handle.

_“Please, if not for them, then for me.”_

‘I’m trying, John.’ With every ounce of his energy, sweat pouring off him onto his clothes and a victorious smile on his face, Sherlock grabbed the door handle and with a smooth motion the door swung open and Sherlock toppled through.

_***_

In John’s own Sherlock’s sweaty hand twitched. John froze, letting go of Sherlock’s hand and staring at in complete and utter shock. He watched it again, to make sure he was not fooling himself in his despair, and was delighted when Sherlock’s hand once again moved, the fingers curling in slightly.

His words had gotten through, he hoped, causing a response after nil. John felt himself suddenly laughing, relief and joy dispersing the clouds in his mind, feeling the need to call Mary and Mycroft and Greg all at once, but instead reaching to press the call button to summon Sherlock’s doctor. This was progress: after almost two weeks of absolutely nothing from Sherlock there was finally _something_.

“Sherlock,” he grinned, “Thank you, you absolute sod, thank you.”

There was, of course, many other barriers for them to get through. But, for now John had something to hold onto. Something to give him hope.


	6. Cubitt

Sherlock’s doctor had been pleased at the first signs of waking, telling John that it was only a matter of time.John had felt brighter ever since Sherlock’s hand twitching, a buzz of energy stirring within him like a spring breeze, blowing away a part of his concern and replacing it with growing hope. He had phoned Mary almost immediately, and she had reflected his delight, passing on the news to Mrs Hudson.  That had been two days ago, and it was now over two weeks since Sherlock had been rendered comatose.  Every now and then his hand would twitch and John would watch to see if Sherlock did anything else. He knew his friend probably wouldn’t appreciate being stared at like he was a zoo animal, but John had to cling to his hope. Sherlock never moved further though.

Greg had had no luck in finding the cabbie yet, deciding that it would be best to start with someone they couldn’t be sure was in on the potential plot to harm Sherlock; if they got the truth out of him then they could work on solving this mess from there.

The situation of helplessness was made worse by the fact the antibiotics hadn’t taken much effect on the infection on Sherlock’s side yet, the fever having only abated slightly, still leaving Sherlock coated in sweat, his sheets and pyjamas having to be changed every few hours for his comfort, and shivering from a cold only he could feel. The infection was persistent, the wound red and angry looking underneath its dressing, and his heartbeat had accelerated somewhat. John and the doctor had decided to increase the dose, with the consent of Sherlock’s parents first, of course, who were still in town.

Now, waiting on news from Lestrade, John sat there for a while staring into space, the sharp reflection of the ceiling light off the linoleum floor causing his eyes to hurt until he had to turn away, once again looking at Sherlock  lying in his hospital bed. He was sick of this: the hospital, the stark whiteness, Sherlock comatose in a hospital bed, spending everyday for over two weeks waiting in the agony of anticipation. He needed a break, but he couldn’t have one; he had promised Sherlock, and John Watson would not break that promise.

His gloomy thoughts from a gloomy mind were broken by the trilling of his mobile. Just like the day before he stepped outside for the call, but the caller wasn’t Mycroft, but Greg.

“John, hi. Listen, we’ve found the cabbie, luckily we were able to track him down from his hospital file; we’ve brought him in for questioning.”

John breathed out, blinking in relief that there was finally something. “Great, that’s good.”

“Look, John, I can’t permit you to be in there with him for the interrogation, but you could come along to view from the observation room?”

John paused for a moment, considering this. Sherlock wouldn’t be alone if he went: his parents were planning on visiting again, and John desperately wanted to go…..

“Would I be able to bring a recording of the interrogation? –with the aide of Mycroft, of course.” He asked, already knowing Greg’s answer as the man chuckled.

“John, with Mycroft Holmes, the whole of the force is open for your perusal. “

                                                                                ***

The cold detachment of the interrogation room and the secret room off of it reminded John very much of Mycroft Holmes himself, and it seemed rather fitting that John stood here because of his power. The elder Holmes brother was there in person, deciding maybe that government could wait for a bit when his little brother was concerned. Inside the interrogation room itself, Greg was seated with Sally Donovan, curly hair tied back severely and a serious look on her face. She was neutral in this investigation, not caring whether this man in front of her, a hard looking man with his arm in a cast and a face yellow and purple from fading bruises, was guilty or not of conspiring to harm Sherlock. She probably couldn’t care less.

“Can’t you get any of your…lackeys to track down the men in the footage?” John asked Mycroft as they stood watching while Greg went through all the legal matters for the recording.

The other man squinted his eyes a little, “I already have my best people working on identifying the men in the footage, John. Do not worry yourself that I am not doing my all to find my brother’s assailants.”

John snorted at that, “That was almost….compassion, blimey, Mycroft.”

Mycroft seemed to freeze a little, and then cleared his throat, tapping his ever present umbrella on the ground. “I…..care for my brother….somewhat strongly, I consider finding his assailants the greatest justice I could do for him, and so I shall do it.” He pointedly didn’t look at John.

John stared at him in surprise, “If it were possible for humans to do so I would’ve thought you were melting.”

Mycroft coughed, looking decidedly uncomfortable, “Yes, well, enough of your sentiment, John, we must focus on the matter at hand.”

John just nodded, still staring at Mycroft. Suddenly he realised Greg had finished, and he turned his attention back to the interrogation room.

                                                                               ***

Back at the hospital, Mary was making her way to Sherlock’s room, Elizabeth in her arms. Today was her day off, and to save Mrs Hudson a day of toddler entertaining she decided they might as well visit ‘Uncle Sherlock’, seeing as her daughter was completely besotted by the man, to everyone’s, even Sherlock’s, surprise.

The nurses cooed at Elizabeth in her completely pink, colour coordinated outfit, and Mary was forced to spend an appalling amount of time waiting for them to be done with their mollycoddling. When she did finally make it to Sherlock’s room she wasn’t to find him alone, for Mr and Mrs Holmes were sat on either side of Sherlock’s bed, Mrs Holmes with a firm hold on Sherlock’s hand whilst Mr Holmes was humming absently, a habit, Mary knew, frowning slightly.

“Oh, sorry,” she muttered, trying to back out as discreetly as she could with a gurgling Elizabeth, who had sighted Sherlock and was desperate to get to him. Although she had spent quite a lot of time with Sherlock’s parents, and although they did not know it, she still felt the crippling guilt that she was the one who had shot their son.

It was too late, however, as Mrs Holmes had risen and was now ushering Mary in, and another round of cooing began, Elizabeth still more interested in her godfather.

“Oh, no Mary, dear it’s absolutely fine, I feel like I haven’t seen you in absolutely ages! Oh, look, and this is Elizabeth!” Mary let Mrs Holmes take charge of her wriggling daughter for a while. “Oh, look how you’ve grown, dear! Oh, you’re absolutely charming!”

Mary smiled, reaching for her daughter’s hand and squeezing it a little. Mr Holmes watched all this from where he was standing by Sherlock’s bed. Elizabeth, instead of reacting to Mrs Holmes’s attempts at getting her to say ‘hello’, was still desperately trying to get to Sherlock, twisting round in Mrs Holmes’s arms, reaching out with her small arms.

“Sh-wock!” She pleaded, “Sh-wock!”

Mrs Holmes looked down at Elizabeth for a moment, and then at her husband, both were wearing expressions of surprise, and Mr Holmes suddenly looked a little teary. They obviously hadn’t expected Mary’s and John’s daughter to want Sherlock so desperately.

“She err….she’s grown very fond of Sherlock,” Mary tried to explain, as Elizabeth still continued to get to the sleeping man. Mrs Holmes seemed to need a moment to regain herself, before nodding at Mary and smiling down at Elizabeth.

“I can see that, how very charming!” both parents shared a look again, as if they couldn’t believe Sherlock had gained such affection from someone other than them. They were obviously very aware of their son’s sociopathic tendencies and this must have seemed very odd. “Well, why don’t we go and say hello to him then?” she asked Elizabeth, and went to sit down in the chair by the bed again.

Mary and Mr Holmes looked at each other, and Mr Holmes looked like he might hug her, but instead he just gave her his warm smile and offered her his chair, which she accepted gratefully.

“Sherlock, dear, Mary is here with Elizabeth,” Mrs Holmes told her sleeping son, who was shivering from the fever, stroking back his damp curls. Elizabeth reached out a podgy hand, wanting to join in.

“She likes his hair,” Mary explained once again, and Mr Holmes chuckled. Mrs Holmes leaned forward so she was perched on the edge of the bed, just like John had done, and Elizabeth happily grabbed onto Sherlock’s curls, rubbing them between petite fingers.

Mrs Holmes looked up at Mary, quite obviously taken aback by the toddler’s affection.

“I didn’t realise she would be so…taken with him, with Sherlock being _Sherlock_ ,” Mrs Holmes said quietly to Mary, not unkindly, but with an exasperated affection.

Mary nodded, “John and I were as surprised as you are, and even Sherlock is I think….he seems…exasperated by her constant attention but also revels in it,” Sherlock hardly ever denied Elizabeth the attention she craved and the attention she gave to him, and he would sometimes spend a long while rattling off his deductions to her as she played with his hair or his cuffs. It really was rather endearing.

“Yes, that sounds like Sherlock,” Mr Holmes agreed quietly, speaking for the first time. “It’s nice that you bring her to…visit him.” he looked down at her from where he was stood behind her chair, and Mary gave him an encouraging smile.

“She loves seeing her ‘Uncle Sherlock’, and I’m sure her presence is helping him in some way too…” she didn’t believe herself on that last part, but she pretended to.

Mr Holmes sniffled a little behind her, and reached forwards to place his hand over Elizabeth’s, almost as if he was thanking her for her obsession with Sherlock. However, his expression soon turned concerned again as he felt the heat emanating from Sherlock’s forehead.

“Good lord, he’s absolutely boiling….” He muttered, grabbing a cool cloth from the bedside table and soaking it in the water bowl there. He passed it to his wife, who gently moved Elizabeth’s hand away so she could place to cloth on Sherlock’s forehead.

“There…” she muttered, and Mary’s heart clenched at the sight of Sherlock’s mother giving him some well needed maternal care. “These aren’t hospital pyjamas, are they?” Mrs Holmes asked Mary, smoothing down the sleeve of Sherlock’s t-shirt.

Mary shook her head, “No, they’re his own; John thought it would be more comfortable for him to have his own things.”

Mrs Holmes looked absolutely delighted by this, “Oh, Mary, your husband is a keeper; don’t you ever let him out of your sight!”

It was meant as a joke, but the words rung hard in Mary’s ears, “I won’t…” she muttered, trying her best to smile.

At that moment Elizabeth started to pat at the cool cloth on Sherlock’s forehead, giggling a little as she got little beads of cold water on her hand.

“Sh-wock, cold,” she exclaimed, patting the man’s cheek in order to rouse him, leaving it wet. Of course, she was unsuccessful. “Sh-wock,” she demanded of him, now pulling lightly on his curls, “Sh-wock!”

Mary decided she would intervene before Elizabeth either started crying or pulled out Sherlock’s oxygen supply. Her daughter was obviously rather distressed: it was probably best to leave. She pulled her daughter away from Mrs Holmes and Sherlock, much to Elizabeth’s chagrin.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Suppose I better take you to get some lunch, eh?” she asked a pouting Elizabeth.

“It was lovely to see you, dear,” said Mrs Holmes, and Mr Holmes nodded, sorting out another cool cloth for his son, smiling his farewell. Mary went to the door, promising she would see them again soon.

She was just at the end of the corridor when she heard someone calling her name.

“Mary”, Mr Holmes was closing the door to Sherlock’s room behind him as she turned around. He did a funny little jog up to her, his shoes squeaking on the floor. “Mary, I just have to say that….well, not often have my wife and I seen Sherlock so cared for in life, I know how he can be quite…” he trailed off, and Mary gave him an encouraging smile. She thought he must have found it hard to get the words out. “But it seems you and John have given him the friendship he has always needed but didn’t have, until he met John, and err…little-little Elizabeth also seems very taken to him,” he reached out and took her little hand, seemingly transfixed, eyes vacant as though he were staring into the past, to when his own children had been Elizabeth’s age, when they had sought their parents’ affection, instead of pushing them away. “But, ermm…” he brought himself back to the present, “I must say thank you for it, please pass my regards on to John.”

Mary smiled at him, a warmth blossoming in her like a daffodil in the spring. “There’s no need to say thank you,” if only he knew what she had done, “John, I don’t think, has ever had a closer friend than Sherlock.”

Mr Holmes frowned, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his tweed trousers, “But…you, surely?”

Mary smiled, hoisting up Elizabeth more firmly into her hold, “No, their friendship is unique…I don’t think anyone or anything could compete with it.”

Mr Holmes looked teary again, Mary’s words bringing the conformation he needed that his younger son wasn’t alone, and would never be again.

                                                                                        ***

John returned to the hospital a few hours later, the recording of the interrogation safely in his pocket and cassette player borrowed from Scotland Yard in his left hand. The interrogation had been….revealing, and the storm in his mind was raging once again, both in desperation to get the information to Sherlock and with anger. He met Mr and Mrs Holmes just as they were on their way out of the hospital, and stopped for a hug from Mrs Holmes and a handshake from Mr Holmes.

“Mary came to visit earlier,” she told him, “with your daughter, oh John she’s just perfect!”

John smiled his agreement, “She is, yes.”

“And so attached to Sherlock,” she added quietly, picking an invisible piece of fluff from John’s jacket, “It’s so good of you to take Sherlock’s case on personally, Mycroft told us all about it, of course…”

“We’ll sort this out, I promise,” John addressed both parents, and Mr Holmes looked at him gratefully.

“You heard he’s finally…?” John asked after a pregnant silence.

Mrs Holmes beamed at him, “Oh, yes, we were so relieved when Mycroft told us, we hoped something might happen whilst we were visiting but unfortunately…” she trailer off, and her husband put his hand on her shoulder.

John gave her his best ‘I’m a doctor and I know these things’ expression, “We have to give him time,”

“John’s right, dear. Let’s get something to eat, shall we?” Mr Holmes spoke up, and with a quick goodbye John was left alone in the corridor.

                                                                                  ***

Sherlock lay, for a very long time, panting just outside the door from whatever dark hell he had been trapped in for however long it had been, staring at the spiralling staircase that lay ahead of him, an exact copy of the one from the house in _A Study in Pink_. His heart was pounding in his head, and sweat was making his hair stick together in clumps. His whole body was in pain, but it felt almost sweet, now that he had the success of knowing he was out of _that_ room. Lights started to flicker above him as he stared at some peeling wallpaper, needing maintenance just like he did.

_“Sherlock, dear, Mary is here with Elizabeth,”_

Sherlock lifted his head _, ‘Oh god is that…?’_ yes that was definitely his mother. He was going to glare Mycroft into the New Year for bringing his parents into this. But, he was in a coma, that much he knew, and he knew how they loved to worry so. He sighed, hoping that if he could hear his parents, then he might catch other snippets of the outside. Stuck in his own head, he was bound to go stir crazy.

_“Sherlock, darling, well be back to see you very soon, just remember not to spend too much time in that Mind Castle of yours.”_

_“I think it is a Mind Palace, dear.”_

Oh good, his parents appeared to be leaving; maybe now they could get down to business?

The lights in the stairwell were now completely on, still dim but casting him in a pleasurable light. He almost felt like he could fall asleep here, like he did at the end of a long case on the sofa in Baker Street. The pain had dulled to a low throb, almost bearable, and the floor below suddenly felt very comfortable….

_“Sherlock, this is a recording of the interrogation of the man who was driving your cab when it crashed, Mr David Cubitt.”_

John, talking of an interrogation, meaning there was possibly new information, information he sorely needed….

Sherlock stopped his eyes from closing, forcing them open and himself to sit up, and a lurch of pain hit him like nausea.

 _“Mr Cubitt, what is your profession?”_ that was Lestrade, definitely Lestrade.

 _“A cab driver.”_ This voice was deep and monotone. Mr Cubitt, he assumed.

 _“What is your_ real _profession?”_

There was a silence, and no answer came to this question, even after Lestrade demand he answer it. _‘For god’s sake, Lestrade, why can’t you just deduce it like I do? Oh yes, because you’re an idiot.’_

_“What were you doing driving the cab that one Sherlock Holmes took on the 30 th December?”_

_“Driving.” Mr Cubitt said, mocking in his tone._

_Lestrade sighed, “Did you have criminal intent when you drove Sherlock Holmes in that cab?”_

_“The only intent I had was of doing. My . job.”_

_Lestrade sighed._

 Sherlock perked up a bit more, sitting against the cracking wall in his Mind Palace.

_“Mr Cubitt, if you do not answer truthfully then I am going to have to arrest you for withholding evidence. Now you don’t want that do you?”_

There was a moment of silence, in which the pain in Sherlock’s head increased and he wiped away dripping sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand.

Finally Cubitt replied, _“Fine.”_

This told Sherlock more about the man than words; didn’t take long to convince: obviously more interested in saving his own skin.

_“I will ask you again then, did you have criminal intent when you drove Sherlock Holmes in that cab?”_

_Mr Cubitt scoffed, “If that’s what you want to call it; I see it more as dealing with an unwanted pest.”_

Sherlock frowned. Mr Cubitt….he knew he’s heard that name before, probably deleted the information from a long ago case that was no longer interesting.

_“How so?”_

_“…Mr Holmes has proved a little…difficult for some people in the past; he needs to be stopped from interfering.”_

_“And is this why you stole a cab on the 30 th of December?”_

_“I didn’t steal it, I actually am a cabbie, it actually is my job.”_

_“Hmm, well, we’ll have to look into that on our records won’t we?” a chair scrapped against the floor and a door opened and closed._

Sherlock presumed it was Donovan going to look up Mr. Cubitt.

 _‘Oh, for god’s sake, Lestrade; when will you learn to do your job properly?’_ deciding this was ridiculous, and that of course Lestrade couldn’t cope with solving a case without him, Sherlock slowly pulled himself to his feet.

With an agony slicing through his body, Sherlock took staggered steps towards the staircase, sweat dripping like raindrops from his forehead. He no longer felt hot, but instead felt extremely cold, and he wrapped his coat around him for warmth. A fever, he presumed.

_“Okay, so Mr Cubitt, if your profession really is as a cab driver, was it your intent to cause an accident that would harm Mr Holmes in some way?”_

_Mr Cubitt laughed, “It worked rather well, didn’t it? I’ve heard he’s comatose in hospital, although that’s not exactly the same as being dead is it?” He sounded rather disappointed._

Sherlock dragged himself up, gasping as the words echoed around in his head, stars bursting in front of his eyes from exhaustion and exertion. The first landing was close, he could rest then….

_Lestrade sounded angry, “But you managed to get yourself injured_

_“We didn’t anticipate that to happen; the rain caused some…confusion.”  
“’We’?”_

_A pause of silence._

Sherlock groaned, his body feeling like jelly as his hands strained against the banister, pulling himself up and feeling as weak as a kitten. He was shivering all over now, eyes blurring with tears from the pain.

_“Mr Cubitt who were your accomplices?”_

_Another pause of silence._

_“Mr Cubitt, if you do not answer my question then I am afraid that I **must** arrest you for withholding evidence. Mr Cubitt? Okay, why did you mean to harm Sherlock Holmes?” _Lestrade was getting desperate.

Sherlock was too, agonisingly near to the first landing. He slumped onto the stairs, practically crawling up them.

_“I’ve told you! Mr Holmes has caused trouble for some people and they needed him got rid of!”_

Sherlock’s left hand reached out and slammed weakly against the cold floor of the landing. Everything was cold, and he was so tired, vision fading.

_“Who, Mr Cubitt?”_

‘Slam!’ Sherlock’s other hand slammed against the landing, and he began pulling his body up, screaming from the pain. His eyesight was obscured by tears and sweat.

_“Mr Cubitt, I am going to have to arrest you for withholding evidence…”_

Sherlock swivelled his legs onto the landing, his bleary eyesight starting to fade as black curtains came down over them. No, he didn’t want the dark; the dark had been suffocating before. And he was so cold, so _bloody_ cold….

Before he knew it, Sherlock collapsed back on the landing, the curtains falling over his eyes as he sank into darkness.

                                                                                  ***

John stopped the recording immediately when Sherlock’s heartbeat and temperature suddenly rocketed upwards. He rushed to his best friend’s side, staring intently at the monitors. It looked as though Sherlock’s fever was broken; finally the antibiotics were doing their job, killing the infection.

“Sherlock, stay calm, it’s your fever breaking that’s all.” He ordered his friend. Sherlock was shivering violently, but John still placed a cool cloth on his forehead, knowing Sherlock was as hot as fire in reality, that he only felt as cold as ice.

“This is good Sherlock,” John spoke aloud his relief, feeling as though the coolness of the cool cloth was washing over him, calming the storm inside him. “It gives me one less thing to worry about.” He joked. After the interrogation, that was exactly what he needed. He was worrying about Mr Cubitt’s insolence in answering Lestrade’s questions, about whether they would ever get answers from the man, he was worrying about why this crime had not been spotted earlier, what this could mean, and what Lestrade would find as he looked into it. But most of all he was worried about Sherlock, and when, _when_ not if, he would wake up; it was a constant worry, a worry that caused the storm in his mind to surge up, wearing him away bit by bit. The less worry John Watson had, the better he could cope. But this was Sherlock, and things were never done half way, were they?


	7. A Family Business

The next day dawned with a sharp brightness in the air, stinging John’s tired eyes. He hadn’t intended on staying the night at the hospital, but that’s what he did; he felt that after Sherlock’s fever had broken the man might start to become more coherent. But John’s hopes were of cause for nothing: Sherlock’s temperature did drop to a much more agreeable degree, but the man did no more than he already had, and John had to convince himself he was hoping for too much too soon.  The doctors were planning on another CT scan for Sherlock, now that he had passed the two week mark with only a twitching hand to show he was still in there, wanting to know whether that clever old brain of his was up to no good. John hoped with everything he had that it wasn’t.

John broke himself away from his thoughts, finding it much easier now to control the storm of worry that had overwhelmed him in the past, and stood, peering out through the blinds that covered the window to stare down at busy London beginning another day, everyone swarming to their places of work like bees to a hive, whilst tourists got caught up in the flurry like they were trapped in the honey of said bees. Everyone got on with their lives whilst John stayed there with Sherlock, trapped in this ever lengthening sentence of anticipation. And Sherlock remained oblivious to it all, and his precious London went on without him.

John was pulled from these thoughts by a timid tap on the door, and he turned just as Molly walked in; clashing clothes an illumination of colour in Sherlock’s room. She gave John a smile, looking towards Sherlock in the bed awkwardly, not knowing how to respond.

“Molly, hi.” John greeted her, clearing his throat.

“John, you wanted to see me?”

“Yeah, take a seat. I assume Greg told you all about Sherlock’s case?” Molly sat down in the chair on the other side of Sherlock’s bed from the one John had taken.

Molly nodded quickly, searching in her bag for something. “Yes, I’ve got the results back for you.” She finally pulled free a file, and handed it to John over Sherlock, now no longer sweating and hot to the touch but as still and pale as before.  “I know it’s not really my job, but…..well, Greg said you asked for me to do it personally.

“Yes, I knew you could…” John muttered absentmindedly as he looked over the file. Yesterday at the interrogation he had asked Greg a favour: have Molly Hooper do an analysis on Mr Cubitt’s jacket from the day of the crash, not a stranger. John knew Molly would appreciate helping in anyway, plus he didn’t want to place the analysis in the hands of someone he didn’t know and therefore couldn’t trust; it seemed as though that was what may have happened with the CCTV, although Greg was still on the search for the culprit.

“It’s very clever what you do with this, Molly,” John said, looking up at her and smiling gratefully.

Molly smiled back, “It was simple, really.” To her, yes: she had taken tiny flecks of skin particles from Mr Cubitt’s jacket, matching them to the DNA of one Mr. Jeffery Straker. This was a lead John could not ignore: this Mr Straker could be the man who had grabbed David Cubitt out of the cab after the accident, and therefore be one of the conspirators of the attack against Sherlock. Another spring breeze blew through John carrying hope once again.

“But this is…this is very useful, very useful indeed, thank you, Molly, I’m sure he appreciates it…in his own way.” John said, indicating Sherlock.

Molly blushed, shifting on her seat. “It was my pleasure; I want to make sure he gets out of this.” She said it with such belief and affection that John stared at her for a moment in wonder, watching as she peered down at Sherlock and confidently took his hand, something he knew she would never have done years ago. He was strangely proud.

“We all do,” he said, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “Listen, I better tell Mycroft that we have a potential lead in Mr Straker, but you’re more than welcome to stay with him.”

Molly seemed caught for a moment, but nodded at John that she would stay. He smiled, and quickly left the room.

                                                                                    ***

Sherlock came to somewhat abruptly, lying on the hard wooden floor of his Mind Palace. He sighed with relief that he had made it up the stairs, being too out of it at the time to remember actually achieving the act. He no longer felt like an icicle, thank goodness, nor did he feel overly hot. The fever must have died down, he assumed, feeling pleased at the thought but aggravated all the same by the fact he’d actually had a fever in the first place. He still felt incredibly weak though, and the nagging pain pulsed with each beat of his heart through his whole body, and he brought a hand to his pounding head, groaning.

_“I hope you can hear me, Sherlock, ‘cause umm….I need to-to tell you something.”_

Sherlock raised his head from his hand. Molly Hooper? What was…oh, for goodness sake, was John letting everyone have a cry by his bedside?

_“We’re all trying very hard to help you, and to find who did this to you, so just…don’t think you’re alone. I suppose you’d laugh at that if you were awake, but, well, I…..”_

Sherlock frowned as Molly paused on the precipice of another sentence. She was wrong: he didn’t laugh, he just sat there silent.

_“I….Never mind. Well, I should go now; John’s coming back very soon, so you won’t be alone.”_

The voice was gone. Molly was gone. “Molly,” Sherlock whispered to himself inside his own head.

He sat there for a while; well he thought it was a while, trying to contain the pain and get his head around Molly’s words when he heard another voice ringing out around him, John’s voice. He smiled.

_“…we have a potential lead in Mr Straker…”_

Straker. Straker… Sherlock knew he had heard that name before….if only he knew where…

As though his mind were listening to him, which it bloody better be seeing as it was _his_ Mind Palace; the door to his right suddenly creaked open slightly. Finally it seemed his mind was working with him, not against him. Getting to his feet was a wobbly affair, and he had to blink stars out of his vision before he could take staggered steps towards the door and through it.

Sherlock had to blink at the bright stark light that met his eyes in harsh greeting. When he had recovered from the visual shock he took in all he could see, and was surprised by himself. Before was the scene of the crash, frozen in time. Rain stopped mid-air, making the image appear almost like a grainy old film, and a heavy pressure was in the air, the room completely silent; all Sherlock could hear was his slightly accelerated breathing. He took a step forward, shoe grating against the concrete as he observed the crash. His cab was in the middle of the road and the incident was frozen so that the lorry was on full impact with the left side of his cab. The cab itself was balancing on both its right side wheels and Sherlock walked towards it through the rain, not getting wet at all. He walked around so he could see the left side of the cab, observing how much damage the impact had done to it and calculating how much this in turn would’ve done to his body.

It felt odd to be walking into his crash, but he needed to do this, especially now he finally could. He stopped to peer into the front of the cab, getting his first look at Mr Cubitt. The man had a hard look to him, and his face was scrunched up with the impact. Sherlock noticed that a piece of shrapnel had broken through the window and was now flying towards his face through a waterfall of broken glass. He didn’t recognise the man, or if he had known him he’d deleted him. He couldn’t get through to the back of the cab from the left, the lorry being in the way, so he circled round until he could peer into the back of the cab, and at himself. This was the oddest thing about this whole scene; it wasn’t like staring at your reflection, because it wasn’t him, not as he ever saw himself. This was completely different.

His hands were mid-way between his face and his torso, obviously on their way to protect his face. Sherlock’s face itself was turned away from the collision, his eyes screwed up tight. Pieces of glass were glistening in front of him in the rain, and a piece of shrapnel from the front of the lorry was making impact with his forehead. Sherlock subconsciously reached up to touch his own forehead, seeing the sharp but of metal colliding with his Mind Palace self’s head made him wince. That one stupid piece of shrapnel better not have damaged any of his brain cells. He winced again when he saw that the left side of the cab was completely dented in, and the sharp metal mixed with the plastic covering had turned into a sharp shard that was heading straight for his side. Sherlock turned away, surprised that he found this so unnerving; it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen himself injured before.

Sherlock moved around the back of the cab, intending to get nearer to the lorry to see if he knew who the driver was. As he walked round he spotted Straker on the pavement nearby, watching the accident with a cool expression on his face. Around him people were mid stride and their faces were twisted with shock and horror. But Straker was stood completely still, observing the crash as though it were one of the dullest things that one could observe. Sherlock once again turned away and stepped around a large piece of metal grill from the lorry and peered up into the driver’s seat of the lorry cabin. He knew that face. Definitely knew it, but from where?

                                                                               ***

“John!”  John turned round in his seat next to Sherlock; Molly had left a while ago, to see Greg rushing through the door. The man looked accomplished, and John hoped this is what he thought it was.

“Greg? Have you found him?”

The policeman nodded as he came to a stop by John, “Yeah, turns out the man had only just been recruited, went by the name of Philip Straker.

John’s eyebrows shot up, “Straker…” he muttered.

Greg nodded again, “exactly, we’re doing a DNA check but I’m pretty sure that Philip Straker is Jeffery Straker’s son.”

“Bloody hell,” John whispered, “It’s almost like a family affair.”

“We have Phillip Straker in custody now, and we’ll soon question him on what he knows. First I want to now how he got into Scotland Yard in the first place….”  Greg sounded angry, hand running through his greying hair.

“You sure he wasn’t in training for the police?” the suggestion sounded silly even to John’s ears, but he had to ask it.

“Come on, John, that would seem too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t it?”

John nodded resignedly; this case wasn’t getting any easier. “I suppose.”

                                                                                     ***

 _“Philip Straker is Jeffery Straker’s son.”_ The words whispered to Sherlock from the door through which he had entered. He looked up then, committing the face of the lorry driver to memory before turning and heading out the door, away from his crash. Straker, there was that name again.He knew that he knew it, knew he’d heard it before, in a case perhaps?

Sherlock was once again standing on the landing, peering up the flights of stairs. A sudden bout of pain hit him and he doubled over groaning. His eyesight went blurry and he clung to the banister so hard his knuckled turned white. He needed to get to the next level, where he knew more information would be at hand, where his mind would be more awake.

Gritting his teeth he made the weary journey up the stairs, the stairs wavering in front of him. He was exhausted, but he had no choice whether he reached the next landing or not. He **had** to.

“Come on!” he growled as the landing came into sight. He could get there, rest for a moment, and then continue. He had to find out who Philip and Jeffery Straker were, **and** who that lorry driver was. He groaned again in frustration, grasping at the banister with both hand to pull himself up. He was so near…..

                                                                                   ***

Late afternoon and John was yet again faced with another visitor for Sherlock: Mycroft Holmes. The older brother smiled his unsettling smile at John, handing him a Styrofoam cup of coffee. John accepted it gratefully as Mycroft sat down in the chair on the other side of Sherlock’s bed.

“So, what do you make of it?” John asked him.

Mycroft peered down at him, “likely the Strakers wanted revenge on my brother, probably for something he did while in his line of work, I shall look into it.”

John nodded, “Lestrade said he would too,”

Mycroft tilted his head in understanding, sipping his coffee and screwing his face up in distaste at the cheap taste. “We have confirmed that the cab driver was in fact Mr David Cubitt, and that the pedestrian was Mr Jeffery Straker.”

“But no luck on the lorry driver?” John asked.

Mycroft asked, “None so far, I’m afraid that the footage is rather dubious. Though I’m sure DI Lestrade will have Mr Cubitt and Mr Straker junior talking in no time.”

John nodded, sighing, “Well, let’s hope so.”

Mycroft observed John for a moment before peering down at his comatose brother. Sherlock really did love being dramatic; his crash couldn’t be simply an accident, could it? It had to have that element of surprise. Mycroft looked back up at John, “John, be assured I am doing all I can for my brother and that I have people out looking for Jeffrey Straker as I speak.”

John looked down at Sherlock, looking wearier in that moment than he had since Sherlock first had a collision with the front of a lorry. Mycroft knew some sort of storm was going on inside the good doctor’s head, but being Mycroft Holmes he had no words in order to reassure him that Sherlock would come out of this alive and well (and conscious). He’d never understood goldfish very well.

“Good,” was all John said, downing his putrid coffee.

                                                                                ***

Sherlock lay panting on the second landing, his whole body throbbing with pain. He had made it, which was one thing, now all he had to do was find the room to answer his questions. With bleary eyes he looked up towards the door that led off from the landing, and he frowned in thought. His mind had listened to him before when he needed answers about his crash, so why shouldn’t it now?

Forcing himself to solely think ‘Straker’ Sherlock raised himself onto one foot and used his energy to throw himself at the door, reaching out his hand to grab at the door handle. The door swung open and Sherlock let himself be dragged through until he knelt in the entrance. He looked up, and he saw exactly what he needed to see.

                                                                                     ***

All was quiet now in the late afternoon, rain occasionally beating against the window in a raging, rhythmic pattern that echoed in John’s ears. He was far too tired.

Mrs Hudson sat across from him in the other chair, gently arranging Sherlock’s hair so that it sat as it normally did in an organised mess. She tutted, “It really could do with a wash, and look at his lips they’re all cracked.”

John looked up from where he had been leaning on his fist as his arm rested on the chair. He smiled at Mrs Hudson’s concern, and reassured her that the nurses would take care of it and she need not worry so.

Mrs Hudson tutted again at that, “Like I’m not going to worry, John.”

He smiled again and nodded. She stared at him, searching his face for something. “John,” she murmured, getting up and coming around Sherlock’s bed to place her hands on his shoulders. “Why don’t you go home to rest? I can see you’re exhausted, and I’ll stay with him until visiting times end.”

John looked up at her, and then at her thumb as it rubbed soothingly at his shoulder. Maybe he should, Sherlock would be fine in Mrs Hudson’s care of course he would. And he needed to sleep, the rain clouds getting too overwhelming.

“Okay,” he muttered, getting to his feet and pulling his coat on. He reached over to Sherlock and squeezed his shoulder, “see you tomorrow, mate.”

Mrs Hudson looked to be on the verge of tears as she hugged him, ordering him to get rest before resuming her seat next to Sherlock.

Just before he left John heard Mrs Hudson tut and say, “Oh, I do wish it would stop raining.”

John sighed to himself, taking one last glimpse at his sleeping friend before closing the door. “Me too.” He whispered.


	8. Into the past

**10 years earlier**

_Footsteps crept ever so softly on the rusty metal stairs that led to the apartment. The apartment where there was apparently illegal drug dealing occurring. The block of flats was in one of the more dingy parts of London, and Sherlock hated that this was where he had to frequent to get his fix. But none of that now, no, not from this man anyway. He was sure he could find his precious cocaine from someone else. Not that Lestrade needed to know….anyway; he was doing him a favour in telling the police about this particular drug den run by Straker. Straker didn’t call himself Straker when he was dealing drugs, but it hadn’t taken Sherlock long to find out his real name._

_As Sherlock reached the landing of Straker’s apartment he turned to face Lestrade and the rest of the Scotland Yard team, each armed with taser guns and wearing protective gear. Sherlock had scoffed when they suggested he wear a protective vest himself (“If Straker actually owned a gun he wouldn’t know which end did the firing.”). Lestrade glanced at him, nodding to show they were ready. Sherlock turned and faced Straker’s front door and strode up to it confidently, rapping on it three times with his knuckles. A flickering light lit the doorway in the dim light of the evening.  After a few moments the door opened slightly, and a sliver of a hard, stubbly face peered out at him._

_“Well, if it isn’t the great Mr Holmes!” said Philip Straker, leering at him with his mangy teeth._

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Of course it’s me, don’t try to be funny.”_

_Philip’s expression soon turned sour, “You here for ‘it’, then?”_

_Sherlock sighed, “Yes, this isn’t a social visit.”_

_Philip scowled, but soon the door was fully opened and Sherlock was led inside, Lestrade and his team remaining swallowed in the darkness on the stairwell. The flat itself was the same as always: dingy, old fashioned and depleted. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air like a shroud._

_“Well, look who it is: the great and grand Mr Holmes.” A voice came from the shadows that were cast over putrid orange wallpaper, and Jeffery Straker stepped out from them smirking slightly. Sherlock sighed; this man was more dramatic than he was._

_“Yes, and you know why I’m here so why don’t we just get on with it?”_

_Jeffery Straker raised his eyebrows, “Oh, I think we’ll have to see about that. How much cash have you got?”_

_Sherlock withdrew from his coat pocket fifty pounds. He could practically hear Philip Straker licking his lips. “Is this sufficient?”_

_Jeffery Straker nodded, reaching out to grasp it, but Sherlock drew his hand back, “The drugs first.”_

_Jeffery scowled, but nodded to Philip to retrieve the cocaine from the back room._

_“I would talk you through the health and safety procedures for all this, but I don’t think you need to hear them.” Jeffery jeered him as they waited for Philip. Sherlock just snorted._

_At that moment another man appeared from the bathroom, drying his face on a towel, clean shaven. This man was of no relation to the Strakers, but had the same hard face, though his jaw was almost elegant and his eyes sparkled in the fading light._

_“Ah, Sherlock, here again are we? Watch out, or you might overdose.” The man said, and Sherlock tutted._

_“Don’t hide your resentment of me too much, Slaney.”_

_The man’s features darkened, “Yes, well maybe I’d be more amicable to you if you hadn’t lost me my last girlfriend.”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I was just doing her a favour.”_

_Slaney’s eyes gleamed even more in the half-light, “You think that’s funny don’t you? You stuck up little arse.”_

_Sherlock sighed, making his impatience known. Not too long after Philip reappeared and handed the small sachet of white powder to his father, who held it in his left hand and held out his right._

_“Now the money.” Jeffery ordered, and Sherlock took his time pulling the notes and smoothing them out. All that time Slaney watched him with gleaming eyes from the shadows._

_“Well,” Sherlock said, keeping the money hidden in his fist, “This has all been very **meretricious**.” Sherlock put emphasis on the last word, saying it loud enough for Lestrade to hear._

_Jeffery frowned, “What?”_

_Suddenly though the door was broken off its hinges and Lestrade and his team burst into the room. Sherlock sidestepped into the corner, pocketing his money. Jeffery looked around in despair, drugs grasped in full sight in his hand; Slaney looked a mix of aggravated and panicked, and quickly grabbed Philip’s cuff, dragging him into the bathroom and closing the door behind them. Immediately a few of Lestrade’s men went after them, busting down that door too. Sherlock raced over, growling in irritation at seeing the window open and the two men gone. He peered out to see the two men climbing down the fire escape._

_“Send your men to go after them!” Sherlock shouted to Lestrade, who did just that a moment later. Meanwhile one of Lestrade’s team had handcuffed Jeffery Straker and was giving him his rights. Lestrade held the cocaine in his hand, looking triumphant as a moment later much more was brought out from the bedroom. Sherlock considered sneaking some into his pocket._

_“Nice one, Sherlock,” Lestrade commended him, “I’ll make sure you get a mention.”  
Sherlock screwed his nose up, “Oh, please don’t.”  He protested, making his way to the door. _

_“I’ll need your statement some when, Sherlock!” Lestrade said._

_“Later,” he muttered, almost at the exit._

_“Holmes!” Jeffery Straker called. Sherlock turned to see the man staring at him with betrayal and hatred in his eyes. So predictable. “Don’t think you’ll get away with this, ‘cause you won’t, you hear me? You arse!”_

_Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes and stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Yes, thank you for the dramatics, Straker. Have a good time in prison!”_

_And with that Sherlock left, not seeing either Straker or Slaney until ten years later._

                                                                                  ***

Sherlock gasped, backing out of the room and collapsing against the banister. Slaney. That was the lorry driver. Ethan Slaney, who hated him for giving his girlfriend a good reason for breaking up with him. Sherlock laughed in relief, deducing he might be going slightly delirious with exhaustion. But he had done it; he had worked out who the lorry driver was, and why Slaney and the Strakers wanted revenge: he had stopped their successful business of drug dealing.  What else could they want revenge for?

Sherlock slumped further down the banister, eyes fluttering before he realised what was happening and he jumped up in protest. He needed to get further up, he needed to get to consciousness. He could see the next landing, it was so close, no….maybe that was his vision. It was blurry and distorted, the ceiling above getting closer and closer…Sherlock fell forward, gasping at the fatigue that spread through his limbs. He frowned, trying to pull himself up, dragging himself by the banister to the stairs. Hadn’t he done this before? He thought so, though everything seemed a struggle in his current predicament. He had one thought on his mind: Slaney and drug dealing.  He needed to tell John, or Lestrade, or even Mycroft. They had to know, they needed to get after Slaney; he was dangerous when given a reason to be. 

The steps felt like they were lava beneath him, slipping away as his legs kept giving out. Once again he was so close, so bloody close….

                                                                             ***

“John.” Mary said with a sharpness in her voice that made John turn away from the window to meet her shocked face.

“Mary? What?”

Mary looked to Sherlock, looking at something. Her eyes widened once more, “His…his forehead was creasing.”

John felt like an icy breeze was flowing through him. He raced to Mary’s side, peering down at his best friend. Sherlock’s hair was recently washed, soft and wavy upon the pillows, and his face recently shaved. But now John focused solely on Sherlock’s forehead, and watched in amazement when, after a few moments, Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together in a sick mockery of when he was thinking hard.

“Oh my god...” John muttered, leaning heavily against the back of his wife’s chair as he laughed with relief and joy. Finally, something else apart from the finger twitching. This was good news.

“Oh, John.”  Mary said in utter delight, smiling up at him, and he leaned down to kiss her deeply. They broke apart and John placed his hand over Sherlock’s.

“Thank you.” He muttered.

Mary continued to smile, watching Sherlock again. “Do you think…?” She asked, and John couldn’t help but hope, couldn’t help but clear the clouds in his mind for just a moment. He needed this hope.

“I’m not sure, but he’s due for an MRI scan today anyway so we’ll see.” John answered, and Mary placed her hand over his where it was still holding onto Sherlock’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. This could be something; this could be the beginnings of waking. John knew that was what he had said to himself the first time Sherlock had moved since the accident, but he wasn’t going to let the storm clouds invade his mind with their whisperings of warnings that Sherlock may never wake.

Giving Sherlock’s hand a final squeeze, John released himself from Mary’s hold and pressed the call button.

                                                                           ***

Sherlock ragged breaths echoed off the walls that seemed to be closing in on him. He lay on his back, staring up at a white plaster ceiling that seemed far too far away, trying to manage past the pain in his body, which was reaching paramount torture in his head. But he had done it, he’d reached the next landing. He wasn’t even sure how many there were to go, but know was not the time to be too pessimistic. He groaned, the unpleasant feeling of his stomach heaving as he rolled onto his front, struggling to put trembling arms underneath himself as he tried to raise himself off the floor, the nausea coming on fast. It wouldn’t actually be possible to bring anything up, seeing as he was only a mental charade of his tangible self, but the symptoms were just as unpleasant.

By some miracle he managed once again to struggle to his feet, daggers shooting through his tired legs. He knew it was bad of him to be pushing himself like this, but he had no choice, not now he knew the identity of the lorry driver…

Sherlock surveyed his location, blinking past the stars spinning in front of his eyes, and came to realise that he was on the final level, with a door directly to his left and another right in front of him. His ragged breaths stilled for a moment, as he stared at his final destination, not quite sure he did truly believe he’d made it. He staggered forward, going for the directly in front of him, deducing that his penchant for being dramatic would suggest this would be the way out, the door leading to consciousness. He reached out a sweaty and shaking hand, grasping onto the large brass handle and pulling. The door didn’t open. He pushed, and yet it still didn’t open. Sherlock growled as he set to shaking the door, anything to make it open, even just that tiny bit. The door did not so much as budge, not even when he put all his strength, his weak and failing strength, into the varnished wood.

Around him noises were becoming noticeable. The whirring of a machine, filling his eardrums and increasing his headache, the sound of voices, voices that sounded surprised, and then a door banging open, ironic in his situation, and then suddenly he felt a brief but stinging pain on his right hand, and came to the conclusion someone had pinched him. And then a voice was calling him, not a voice he recognised, but a voice nonetheless.

“Let me out!” he screamed at the door, losing his patience and giving in to desperation. He hadn’t been this close to consciousness before; he hadn’t been able to feel something that was happening to him in the ‘real’ world before now.  “For god’s sake!”

 _‘It’s my own mind, I shouldn’t be trapped here!’_ he thought, pulling on the door handle again. It didn’t budge, and suddenly, and rather unexpectedly, Sherlock felt like crying. Crying out of pain and desperation and exasperation. He just wanted to be back in control. He _hated_ not being in control.

“John!” he called out, the voice of the unknown person fading away, “John! It’s Slaney! You need to find a man called Slaney! For god’s sake, I don’t care if you have to get Mycroft just find him! ” Sherlock continued shouting, pounding on the door with weak fists. His legs went out from under him and he sagged against the door, sweat trickling into his eyes. “I need to get out of here…” he muttered, sighing with agitation.

                                                                            ***

“It’s very peculiar,” the doctor was saying to John, sans Mary, “his brain activity shot way up whilst we were performing the MRI, and then suddenly returned back to that of what you’d expect of a coma patient. This is very irregular, but the signs are all suggesting there may be a chance of his waking in the near future. But I’m afraid we can’t be sure.”

John nodded, trying not to outwardly look too hopeful, “I understand. Thank you.” He nodded to the doctor, who left him alone with Sherlock. John looked over at his friend, sitting down in the ever present chair. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed gently with just enough pressure to be comforting.

“Sherlock, I know you’re in there you sod, and I understand that you’re probably fighting very hard right now, but don’t you stop. Understand that, hmm? You’ve got to keep on Sherlock, ‘cause you’re so bloody close.”

John sighed, leaning back in the chair and rubbing a hand over his face. Behind his eyelids he could’ve sworn he could see the rain falling in his mind.

                                                                                    ***

“John!” Lestrade bustled into the room, with him the cassette player and a cassette. John perked up from his magazine reading, heart jumping at the sight of the items in Lestrade’s hands.

“Philip Straker had some interesting things to tell us,” Greg remarked as he set up the device and slotted in the cassette. John set aside his magazine, sitting up in his chair and automatically peering over to Sherlock. “Apparently he got into the Yard through ‘contacts’, who these contacts are I’m very curious to find out….”

John hummed his agreement, tense to hear what Straker had said.

“Any change?” Greg asked absently, fiddling with the machine.

John nodded, “There was a brief increase in brain activity, and he frowned earlier, but there’s been nothing since then.”

Greg looked over, giving John a small grin. “Well, that’s still brilliant. It’s about time he woke up, isn’t it?”

John sighed, smiling just a little, “Yes, he’s taking his time about it, probably bored or something.”

Greg chuckled, “Not sure if you want to make notes like you normally do on cases, John.  I’ve got a script written up of it, but…”

John waved, “Not sure if it will do any help.” He felt like he couldn’t do anything but sit there and stew in his thoughts. Suddenly he realised something, and leaned over to Sherlock to say, “Sherlock, this is the interrogation of Philip Straker, the man who is responsible for tampering with the evidence of your accident, and also one of the men who we believe to be in  league with three others, one being his father, who conspired to kill you.”

Greg nodded, “Okay, here we go.”

                                                                      ***

Once again Sherlock became aware of voices around him, but this time he recognised them as John and Lestrade. He perked up, hoisting himself up on his arms until he was sitting straighter. He frowned past the headache, focussing on their words.

_“Sherlock, this is the interrogation of Philip Straker, the man who is responsible for tampering with the evidence of your accident, and also one of the men who we believe to be in league with three others, one being his father, who conspired to kill you.”_

Sherlock perked up even more. Philip Straker. He hadn’t heard of that man in ten years. Of course, it was obvious that he would be in on this plan, one of the original three. How **un** original of them.

Sherlock pressed his ear up against the door, straining to hear anything past the thick wood that blocked him from consciousness. From telling John that yes, he knew who was conspiring to kill him and that they needed to look for a man named Slaney.

_“Mr Straker, what was your intention when you decided to tamper with the evidence concerned with Mr Sherlock Holmes?”_

There was a pause, and Sherlock tensed, waiting to hear that whining voice again. Philip Straker sniggered, _“Well, I couldn’t let you lot know what we were up to, could I?”_

_“And what was it you were ‘up to’, Mr Straker?”_

There was a pause, Sherlock heard Lestrade take in an impatient breath, _“Mr Straker, what were you ‘up to’?”  
“Trying to kill Sherlock Holmes!” _ Philip blurted out suddenly.

_“Interesting. Because that is what Mr Cubitt told us when we questioned him.  Am I right in saying you were working together, along with your father, Jeffrey Straker, after his release from prison?”_

_Philip sighed, vexed._ _“Yes.”_

_“And where is your father now, Mr Straker?”_

_“I honestly don’t know, neither me nor Cubitt have seen him since that day.”_ There was sternness to that tone that told Sherlock he wasn’t lying.

_“And why were you trying to kill Sherlock Holmes?”_

_“Mr Holmes was putting his nose into business that he should have left well enough alone. Well, I say ‘his nose’ but he preferred to inject, as I recall.”_

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the lame attempt at humour.

_“Mr Straker,” Lestrade’s voice was questioning, as if he were thinking hard, “are you referring to the drug business that Sherlock Holmes led us to ten years ago?”_

_Philip sniggered again, “Got it in one, Inspector. He had no right to bust us out!”_

_Lestrade hummed, and the shuffling of paper was heard, and the door opened and closed. Sherlock guessed Lestrade had sent an officer to look up the Straker drug bust._

_“Okay, Mr Straker, I need you to tell me if you had a fourth accomplice and, if so, who they were.”_

_There was another pregnant pause. Lestrade asked his question again, and this time a tentative, unwilling answer was given. “Maybe we did, but I don’t think you’ll find them.”_

_“And why is that?”_

_“Because he’s very fast, he’ll have cottoned onto the fact that I’m not home yet.”_ Philip paused, and Sherlock knew he hadn’t meant to say that.

_“Oh, so you were living together?”_

_Philip sighed once again. “Yes.”_

_The sound of a pen on paper could be heard, fast and urgent. Then came Lestrade’s voice, “Mr Straker, I have one last question for you: who is this person that you are currently living with?”_

_Another pause_. Sherlock perked up, desperate to just tell John and Lestrade.

“It was Slaney! Lestrade, for god’s sake it was Slaney!”

Of course, Sherlock knew he couldn’t be heard, but the agitation inside of him was bursting out.

_“Mr Straker, you’re already under arrest, I suggest you just tell me unless you want me to press more charges against you?”_

_“I can’t.” Philip said quietly_ , and Sherlock frowned, causing the sweat on his brow to stop is dripping for a moment.

_“And why not?”_

_There was an intake of breath, “If I do, he’ll come after me, and he’ll know it was me who told you.”_

_There as the sound of a chair creaking, probably as Lestrade leaned forward. “Mr Straker, you do not have to be afraid of this person, you will be protected in here, in a locked cell, mind you.”_

Sherlock sniggered, _‘How very comforting Lestrade.’_

_“If you don’t tell us, we will find out soon enough anyway, but you could help us, which would prove to be helpful during your court case.”_

Sherlock could practically hear Philip thinking from beyond the door, his breath baited. Philip was someone who could tell them; if Sherlock couldn’t, being locked in his own bloody Mind Palace!

In a fit of anger, Sherlock slammed his hand against the door, and in doing so almost missed Philip Straker’s quiet answer.

_“Ethan Slaney.”_

_The pen dancing on paper could be heard again, and Lestrade exhaled. “Thank you, Mr Straker.”_

And then the voices stopped.

Sherlock gave his own relieved exhaled. “Finally, thank you, someone isn’t an idiot!” he muttered out loud, words echoing off the walls. “Now let me the hell out!” he shouted, giving one final effort at opening the door, stars dancing in front of his eyes and the pain coming like waves until he collapsed, exhausted, black curtains drawing over his eyes.

                                                                          ***

“We’ve got people going out to Straker and Slaney’s flat, the slim hope is that he’ll still be there, but this is looking very unlikely now after Philip Straker’s words.” Lestrade said as he unplugged the cassette player and carefully placed the cassette in his coat pocket.

John sat, the rainclouds in his mind egging away as he realised how much further the investigation had progressed, at how close they could be to finding the men who had done this. He only hoped Sherlock had heard too.

“Any sign of Jeffry Straker?” John asked, and Lestrade grimaced.

“Not yet, I’m afraid, but Mycroft still has men looking.”

John nodded, and then suddenly remembered something that had puzzled him about Philip Straker’s interrogation. “What did you mean by the ‘drug business’?”  He asked Lestrade, who straightened up.

“About ten years ago, when Sherlock was ermm… you know. He was helping us on little cases; I wasn’t prepared to let him in on the big ones while he was high or anything. Anyway, we got a report of a gang of drug dealers selling off all sorts; lord knows how they got them.”

“And these men were the Strakers and this Slaney bloke?”

Lestrade nodded, “Yes. Sherlock was one of their regular clients, and one day he told us where they were and led us to them. I had completely forgotten about it until today, it’s been so bloody long.”

John frowned, looking over at his pale and still best friend. “But why?”

Lestrade shrugged, “No bloody idea, and he still hasn’t told me.” Lestrade came up to the bed, cassette player in his right hand, and placed his left hand upon Sherlock’s shoulder. “Maybe you can tell me once you get out this coma, hey mate?”

John internally begged for Sherlock’s hand to twitch or his brow to crease, to show Greg that there was hope, but Sherlock was completely still apart from the even rise and fall of his chest.

Lestrade swallowed, and then smiled tentatively. “Well, I’ll see you later then, mate. Bye John.”

Lestrade made his way to the door. John stood up to shake his hand.

“Thanks, Greg. For all of this, really it’s…”

Greg waved him off. “Don’t you worry about it, John. Lord knows you’ve got enough of that to do already.”

John stared after him as he left, sighing and running a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

                                                                                             **

John was not in Sherlock’s room when Mary returned from picking up Elizabeth from Mrs Hudson. She felt so grateful that John’s former landlady had offered, and wanted, to look after their daughter, with Mary having to work while John took time off to be with Sherlock. They weren’t short on money, Mycroft saw to that, so Mary didn’t feel any worry that hadn’t been at the surgery in almost three weeks.

Sherlock’s room was lit in the sharp artificial lights in the ceiling, the storm clouds outside darkening the window, blocking any sunlight. Mary crept into the room with Elizabeth tottering behind her, her little wellingtons squeaking on the linoleum floor. Closing the door behind her Mary encouraged Elizabeth to sit in the vacant chair, her husband nowhere to be seen, which was rather worrying; John was normally with Sherlock, and he knew she was coming back to the hospital so he would’ve texted if he’d gone somewhere…

She chewed on her bottom lip, sending John a quick text enquiring as to his location. Elizabeth was swinging her legs off the chair and leaning both her arms on the armrest, staring at her ‘Uncle Sherlock’ in puzzlement.

“What is it Darling?” Mary asked, picking Elizabeth up as she seated herself on the chair and then rested her daughter on her lap, facing her.

Elizabeth swivelled her head around to stare at the sleeping Sherlock once again. Mary watched her daughter carefully.

“Why is Uncle Sh-wock still ‘sleep?” Elizabeth asked, little fingers going into her mouth. Mary pulled them out quickly, concerned about hospital germs.

“He needs his rest, Lizzie; Uncle Sherlock took a little bit of a tumble.”

“Oh…” the toddler said, staring up at her mother. “But when’ll he wake up?”

Mary sighed, tucking one of her daughter’s fine strands of blonde hair behind her ear. “I’m not sure, Darling, but hopefully very soon.”

Elizabeth nodded, looking very serious, a very amusing expression on such a young face. Mary smiled at her daughter, eyes full of love. Elizabeth turned around on Mary’s lap and reached out to Sherlock, and Mary understood she probably wanted to touch his hair. It was Lizzie’s alternative of a safety blanket.

Mary took her daughter under the arms and carefully sat her on the bed by Sherlock’s arm, careful that Lizzie didn’t aggravate his injuries and disturb the IV line. Her daughter reached out and, predictably, grasped Sherlock’s recently washed curls between her fingers. However, Mary was surprised when her daughter went on to touch Sherlock’s nose and then his mouth, tracing curves and lines, something she hadn’t done since she was a tiny baby and everything was new to her. Mary was about to stop her, cautious she would pull out the oxygen prongs when her daughter leant forward, tucking her head in the crook between Sherlock’s neck and shoulders and threw her arms around his neck, small hands resting on the pillow.

Elizabeth was attempting to give Sherlock a hug. Mary could feel the tears forming in her eyes.

Elizabeth pulled back after a few moments and stared at Sherlock’s still and pale face with childish desperation.

“Wake up soon, Uncle Sh-wock.”

Mary tears were threatening to run, and she leant forward to grasp Sherlock’s hand, pulling in a sharp breath and holding it tight. Please, she begged in her mind, please Sherlock do frown again, so she can see. But Sherlock didn’t do anything but continue to lie there, face as still and peaceful as ever.

Mary sighed, and Elizabeth hugged her Uncle again.

                                                                                  ***

Sherlock surfaced once again on the landing to the repetitive sound of a childish voice saying his name. Well, he guessed it must be his name, but it was missing a few letters. _‘Ah’_ , he thought, _‘Elizabeth.’_ She must be visiting. Meaning either John or Mary was there too. Or maybe both of them….

 _“Mary!”_ came John’s voice, and Sherlock heaved his aching and pained body into a standing position, pressing against the door, trying it again. It still didn’t budge. He growled in irritation.

_“….What’s the matter?” came Mary’s voice._

_“Err, well, I’ve just been speaking to Mycroft, sorry I didn’t answer your text.”_

_‘Oh great,’_ Sherlock thought, _‘Mycroft’s here.’_

_“….we found out the identity of the fourth accomplice, and the Police went to check at the flat he was living in and he was nowhere to be seen.” John continued._

Sherlock wasn’t surprised that Slaney wasn’t to be seen. The man wasn’t as stupid as other people, like Philip Straker for example (getting caught wasn’t a very good if you wanted to successfully get away with something), and knew when trouble was brewing. He could be anywhere now. Sherlock may have been able to deduce where, from evidence at the flat, if he wasn’t stuck in this blasted coma!

_“But Mycroft said he had people watching the flat since Philip Straker was arrested, just in case, but they haven’t been in touch, which is slightly concerning….” John sounded worried._

Sherlock frowned, leaning against the door. He felt so close to John and Mary, and yet there was the barrier of his own mind, and he couldn’t seem to break it down. Suddenly he felt as though something was pulling gently on his hair, and he realised that it must be Elizabeth in the ‘real world’: the child had a strange fascination with his hair. Odd.

 _“…..think that this man poses some sort of threat?”_ that was Mary, and Sherlock forced himself to focus, head still throbbing.

_“…Very likely. He might still be out for revenge on Sherlock. We’ll have to be very careful.”_

_‘Oh, John.’_ Sherlock thought, sliding down the door again, legs wobbling beneath him. _‘You’ll have to be more than careful.’_


	9. The tumult grows

John had sent Mary and Elizabeth home soon after updating her on the Slaney situation, his daughter reluctantly leaving the sleeping Sherlock. John had only half taken in the heart warming scene, his mind going over all the worries about Slaney like a tornado in his brain, but still found himself quite heartened by his daughter’s enamour to Sherlock.

John slumped down into the chair next to Sherlock’s bed, surveying his friend in the half-light that came with a darkening sky. The storm outside was still ensuing, and its vicious attitude seemed rather fitting for the circumstances.

John sighed, “You really can’t do things by halves. Can you, Sherlock? No, you can’t. First you end up comatose, now there’s a druggie on the loose who has a bloodlust for you. Things are never boring with you, are they mate?”

John leaned forward and squeezed Sherlock’s hand for a moment, careful of the cannula. He had no thoughts about going home that night, not when there was a man on the loose who wanted Sherlock dead, not even when Mycroft was placing some men to guard at Sherlock’s door. He had to be there, of that he was certain, because Sherlock always ended up in trouble without him.

                                                                           ***

John slowly came to awareness the next morning at the rough shake of his shoulder. He jumped in the chair, bleary eyes discerning the outline of Mycroft standing before him, and when he’d rubbed the sleep out of his eyes he realised the elder Holmes brother was wearing an expression of amusement.

“I do applaud you for you soldierly night watch over Sherlock, John, even when he is already heavily guarded.”

John shot him a glare, rubbing at his aching neck. Hospital chairs _really_ were not comfortable enough for sleeping in.

“Spied on anyone yet?” he asked, voice rough from sleep.

Mycroft shook his head. “No, although we have not yet spotted Ethan Slaney on any CCTV. It seems this man is rather clever at disappearing when he wants to, then again he is rather sneaky.”

John frowned: how did Mycroft know that? “Right…”

“He’s on the Police records for multiple crimes as a young adult, mainly breaking and entering, robbing and so forth. He spent three years in prison when he was twenty one.” Mycroft explained. “It seems he must have learnt some tricks over the years.”

“Yes, unfortunately.” John said, Slaney’s tarnished past not surprising him.

“Quite so. Luckily, though, we spotted Jeffrey Straker last night.”

John’s eyebrows shot up, “Really?”

Mycroft nodded, “Interestingly he was ‘at the scene of the crime’, just standing against a shop wall, smoking a cigarette for a while. He was gone by the time my people got there, but at least we know he might still be in London. As for Slaney, he could be anywhere.”

John hummed in thought, “strange that he should so openly show his face.”

Mycroft frowned, “This man is probably arrogant enough to show his face and know that we’re watching, proud at what he has done to my brother.” Something in Mycroft’s tone made John look up at him in surprise. A secret brotherly love for Sherlock had seeped into it, and it made the side of John’s mouth turn up slightly.

Mycroft coughed, and the moment was broken. “We will continue to look out for both of them of course, John. Now, I suggest you go and get some breakfast and phone your wife, seeing as that’s what husbands are meant to do, isn’t it?”

John frowned, fighting a smirk, “Err, yes, I suppose….”

“I shall stay with Sherlock until you return. The Prime Minister was rude enough to cancel on me at the last minute.” Mycroft announced, his ever-present umbrella tapping on the floor.

John rose from the chair, feeling surprised at Mycroft and his actions. Mycroft took his seat in one swift move, sitting straight backed and pulling out his phone. John pondered over to the door slowly, looking at the two brothers, Mycroft absentmindedly tapping his umbrella against the floor and Sherlock lying prostrate next to him.

“Right….” he muttered, leaving the room.

                                                                                     ***

“I have people watching our parents, of course.” Mycroft said, directing his words to his brother, not taking his eyes off his mobile screen, all reports on Slaney and Jeffry Straker coming back negative. “Although I do not think either Slaney or Straker poses a threat to them, seeing as it’s you they are after, and you’re not going anywhere are you, Sherlock?”

Mycroft turned to his little brother, taking in his pale and still face and scrutinising it. His brother did seem truly and deeply stuck in a coma. Mycroft sighed, and turned back to his phone.

Exactly twenty two minutes later Mycroft was shocked to hear the beeping of the heart monitor quicken, Sherlock’s pulse coming rapid, his breathing speeding up. Mycroft swiftly put his phone away, and leaned forward, frowning. Surely coma patients didn’t do this sort of thing?  It was almost as if his brother were having a nightmare: his fingers kept twitching, and his brow was creasing ever so slightly. Mycroft took a firm grip on the hand nearest to him.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?”

He kept squeezing Sherlock’s hand, thinking that perhaps the physical touch might make him more aware. Was this his brother waking up?

Alas, after a few more moments of this restlessness Sherlock fell back into the still and emotionless sleep of a coma patient, and Mycroft sighed, releasing his grip and making a mental note to tell John about this. John would want to know.

                                                                        ***

Sherlock became aware again lying on the floor next to the doors that lead to consciousness. He thought back to John’s words, _“He_ _might still be out for revenge on Sherlock. We’ll have to be very careful.”_ How long had it been since that had happened, what was going on around him now?

“Slaney,” he muttered, trying to desperately think where this man might be. Ethan had had many girlfriends over the time Sherlock had known him, and almost every time Sherlock had made it his duty to end the relationship; a snide comment here, a deduction there. It was rather fun. Now, he realised, this might be coming back to bite him in the arse…

“Slaney,” he muttered again, still mulling over his thoughts over. He was so lost in them that he almost didn’t notice when the door to his right swung open, the door that he had first seen when he’d reached the landing.

The loud squeak of its hinges grasped his attention, and he sat up slowly, still feeling terribly achy, his headache still not budging. How tedious. It reminded him of the migraines he had suffered as a child, the ones that had viciously developed as the information in his brain got too much, before he could control it. He was sure those memories were locked in the deepest depths of his mind palace, along with most of the rest of his childhood.

Cautiously Sherlock clambered to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall and he staggered to the open door. He peered inside: all was dark; he could not discern anything at all. Breathing heavily and blinking rapidly Sherlock took the plunge, stepping into what he hoped wouldn’t send him further back into his mind. Then again, he was one to take risks.

His shoes slapped against a hard floor, and Sherlock staggered in what he approximated must be a forward direction. He didn’t want to venture too far and get lost, how _mortifying_ , but before he could even think about which direction he should go in, a deep and, to most people, unsettling laugh came out of the darkness.

Sherlock squinted, trying to discern which direction it came from, but the laugh seemed to be echoing around him, and then suddenly steps could be heard, loud and confident steps, and the laugh turned into words.

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, look what I’ve done to you.” And then Slaney appeared out of the dark, face to face with Sherlock and wearing a smug expression. Slaney shrugged, “I can’t say I’m not proud.”

Sherlock’s breathing got more ragged in anger as well as pain. Slaney observed him up and down, still looking smug. “ _Why_ are _you_ in _my_ Mind Palace?”

Slaney locked him in a cold hard stare. “I think we need a talk, don’t you?”

Was this his mind trying to give him more information? Or was it simply trying to torment him? Sherlock sniffed and returned the stare, “Yes, I think perhaps we do.”

“Well then, I’ll go first shall I?” Slaney said, and Sherlock indicated with a nod of his head that he should proceed. “Tell me, Sherlock, how does it feel now that I’ve messed up your life?”

Sherlock frowned, “You haven’t ‘messed up’ my life: I’m only in a coma.”

Slaney shrugged, “Well, you do have a point; the desired objection was to kill you. Then again, I’m sure there’s time enough to still do that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Oh, please.” This man was in his head, created by his brain, what did he know?

Slaney laughed, “You should listen to me Sherlock, these aren’t just empty words and you know it. I’m out there right now, finding a way to get to you, and all you can do is lie in a hospital bed, stuck in your mind. Look at you, so weak and defenceless. Oh, this is an excellent time for me to have some sugar sweet revenge.”

Sherlock tried to control his quickening breathing. “How much more do you want? You’ve just told me I’m stuck in my mind and apparently ‘weak’, are you really so hung up about some drugs?”

Suddenly Slaney grabbed the lapels of his coat and shook him roughly. Sherlock couldn’t suppress a groan, blinking as stars appeared in front of his eyes. “It wasn’t just the drugs, Sherlock. I’ve spent ten years moving from place to place, hoping not to be noticed by the sodding Police. You cost me five girlfriends, all for the sake of you showing off, you arrogant arse!”

Slaney shook Sherlock again before releasing him from his grasp. Sherlock’s legs buckled beneath him and he slumped to the floor, breaths ragged, and groaning in pain. Slaney looked down on him in disgust.

“ _You_ …can’t hurt me…”

“Oh no, _I_ can’t Sherlock, no, not really.” Slaney leaned down patronisingly. Sherlock tried to meet his eyes through the shower of stars falling in front of his eyes. “But the _real_ me can. And you know he will. Be warned.”

And with that last warning, Slaney walked off into the darkness, shoes clicking on the ground. Sherlock groaned, dragging himself across the ground in what he hoped was the way to the door. He was so tired, so bloody tired after that, but he couldn’t afford to be defenceless in here, not when he was apparently defenceless in the ‘real world’ too.

Finally he caught a dim glow coming from the landing, and he climbed to his unsteady feet, stumbling more than walking until finally he reached the doorway, collapsing out of it and hearing it slam with a heavy thud. He made his way to the double doors again, leaning up against them, breathing heavily. He needed to warn John, needed to tell him that it was very likely Slaney would be coming after him…..

But before he could do anything, Sherlock slumped to the floor, utterly spent and losing to another kind of darkness.

                                                                                 ***

“John,” Mycroft said immediately upon John’s re-entering Sherlock’s room. John looked at him in confusion, as the elder Holmes brother’s tone had held an unusual hesitancy.

“Hmm?” he asked, coming forward to Sherlock’s bedside.

“My brother just exhibited signs commonly associated with a nightmare: rapid pulse, slight motor movement.”  
John just stared at him, trying to process Mycroft’s words. “But…he shouldn’t….coma patients don’t…”

“And when have you thought my brother ordinary, John?” Mycroft said, his usual aloofness slowly returning to his voice.

John huffed, assessing the monitors. If Mycroft hadn’t just told him what he had witnessed, John would never have thought it had happened at all: Sherlock was as unresponsive as ever.

John stopped himself short of asking Mycroft whether he was sure of what he’d seen, and instead said, “Well, this is…good, excellent really. I mean, this could mean he’s waking, Mycroft.”

Mycroft stared at his brother, scrutinising him. “Well, let us hope for that. Perhaps my brother dear could shed some light onto the whereabouts of our friend, Mr Slaney.”

John hummed in agreement as Mycroft rose from the chair, “Now, I must continue on my business. A killer isn’t going to catch himself, is he?”

John nodded, “No, of course. Try and find him, will you?”

Mycroft turned from his position by the door, “Of course, Doctor Watson. Good day.”

And with that, Mycroft left.

John sighed, turning to sit in the chair recently vacated and putting his head into his hands. He had insisted his wife stay at home with Elizabeth until Slaney and Straker were found, and as much as he hated taking away her right to visit Sherlock he couldn’t bear the thought of his wife and child in danger as well as his best friend. John wished that he could protect all of them at once, but it was too much for one man.

He looked over at Sherlock, “Come on, Sherlock.”

                                                                                  ***

Rain had just begun to patter against the window when John’s thoughts were broken by the arrival of Kiera, one of Sherlock’s regular nurses.

“Hello, Dr Watson, Sherlock.” She greeted, going over to check Sherlock’s chart and his monitors, checking everything was in order. “Terrible weather at the moment, isn’t it?”

John nodded once, “Yes, this storm never seems to stop.”

“Maybe you choose a good time to go on holiday as it were, Sherlock.” Kiera joked, looking over at Sherlock. John chuckled, and Kiera smiled at him.

“His monitors showed an occurrence earlier on, elevated heart rate and brain activity. These are positives signs, Dr Watson.” She assured. “Well, of course you know that…” she added, realising her mistake and shuffling awkwardly away from the bed and from John.

John felt a pang on guilt mixed with second-hand embarrassment in his stomach. “But I appreciate your concern all the same. How are things going for you?” he asked, trying to bring up the casual conversation she and he shared every time she came to check on Sherlock. John had heard all about Kiera’s trouble with the bank, and her mother’s hip operation. Now he was to hear all about the boyfriend.

“Well, we’ve only been going out for a while, but he’s very caring, he has a great interest in my work.” She nattered on whilst checking Sherlock’s drips. “And he’s got this look about him that makes me so….” She sighed, and John coughed awkwardly. “…and his eyes just _sparkle_.”

John stared, trying not to laugh as he imagined what Sherlock might think of his nurse. “Well, you sound very happy.” He said awkwardly, and Kiera seemed to snap out of her trance, smiling weakly at John in apology.

“Everything looks fine, Dr Watson, someone will be back later to check again now that his condition has changed somewhat.”

Kiera was on her way to all but fleeing on the room when suddenly a clamouring came from outside Sherlock’s room. John heard shouts and cries, and leapt up from his chair, pushing Kiera out of the way and throwing the door open. There was one thought on his mind: Slaney.

“Stay with Sherlock!” he shouted at Kiera before running from the room. If Slaney was there, John was going to protect Sherlock from him no matter what harm it caused his own self. Sherlock was his best friend, by god he would do this.

                                                                                 ***

Sherlock was shaken from the darkness by a loud sound, almost like a crash. He sat up suddenly, head spinning and heart racing. He looked around, getting his bearings, and his heart missed a beat when he saw that the doors to consciousness were open, actually **open**. All he could see on the other side was white light.

“John.” He muttered.

Raising himself on trembling legs he grabbed onto the banister, pulling in a short and sharp breath before throwing himself through the doors.

                                                                            ***

His body met the floor with a thud, but instead of the cold hard floor of the stairwell the floor was softer, springier. Almost like a mattress. Sherlock peered around him, seeing a corridor lined with a number of doors. Sherlock raised himself up on his arms, blinking hard against the white lights shining in his face. He could hear everything around him, could hear shouts and then John ordering someone: _“Stay with Sherlock!”_

Oh no. No, no, no. Sherlock knew what this was: this was Slaney. He was closer than ever. In fact, Sherlock knew he would be in his room any second. John. John couldn’t be there. Slaney would harm him. Sherlock had to get out his head!

“John!” he called, desperately opening one of the doors on the right, his body protesting at the sudden movement. He was met with the smug, leering face of Slaney, and Sherlock recoiled, moving away from the door, trying the adjacent door on the left, and there was Slaney again, Laughing at him.

 _“Well, well. Well done, Kiera. Ah, Mr Holmes, there you are. So nice to see you again.”_ Said a voice, and Sherlock froze. Slaney. Slaney was in the room with him. Was John there? What had Slaney done to John? Sherlock felt utterly defenceless. Oh, for god’s sake if he could just get out!

Sherlock cried out in frustration, trying the next door, and the next, until all but one door was open. Slaney leered at him from all sides, and Sherlock threw himself at the last door, the shining white lights getting brighter around him, increasing the pounding in his head, his limbs feeling leaden.

 _“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, look at you. Look what I’ve done to you.”_ Slaney jeered, and Sherlock could hear him from behind the door, clearer than he had heard anything for a while. He was close, so close.

_“Oh, it is a shame that you aren’t awake for this, Sherlock. I would have loved to have seen your face.”_

“NO!” Sherlock growled, grasping at the door handle, pulling and pulling at it until it gave way, until Sherlock was thrown forward with the force of the motion. Suddenly he found himself falling, then the feel of a mattress under him, the sharp sting of an IV line in his hand, the dull throbbing pain of his body abused and unused.

Sherlock suddenly realised he had closed his eyes against the blinding white lights, and he cracked them open, a task almost as hard as breaking through the door and into consciousness.  Bleary shapes met him, which formed into an unfocussed figure, which finally resolved itself into the face of Slaney, leaning over him, a murderous grin shaping his lips, raising his arms, holding a large white object. A pillow, Sherlock realised in his bleary state, as Slaney shoved it roughly in his face. And through Slaney’s laughter, Sherlock thought that he could hear rain.


	10. Chapter 10

John was met with the sight of three men grappling around on the floor, two of them were undoubtedly Mycroft’s men, sent to protect Sherlock and now doing their job, and the third was a hard looking man wearing hospital scrubs. A wheelchair lay on the floor, the seating broken off from the frame, and one of the foot rests was held in the third man’s arm, acting as a weapon against Mycroft’s men. John pushed through a crowd that was now gathering, trying to see if he could help detain this third man, who he prayed was Slaney. The hospital’s security guards were now running up to the scene and they descended upon the third man along with Mycroft’s men. John could barely see what was going on in the scuffle, but grabbed the wheelchair’s footrest as it was manhandled out of the third man’s hand, keeping it out of his way.

Finally the third man was detained, and now his face was slightly bruised and bloody. John stepped forward, peering intently into his face.

“Ethan Slaney?” he asked.

The man sniggered, raising his head, blood dripping from his nose onto the floor as he did so. The drip drop of the man’s blood matched the tempo of the rain in John’s mind as he stared into a face he already knew. He had seen this man before, seen him somewhere…..

It hit him, then. And his heart fell, as did the footrest from his hand, as he realised this was not Ethan Slaney, but Jeffrey Straker. That meant the more dangerous of the two was out there, and there was still time for an attempt after this weak one.

Slaney sniggered again, seeing the recognition on John’s face. “You wish.”

John glared at him, nostrils flaring, hands clenching and unclenching into fists at his sides. He had half the mind to punch Straker, but that would most likely get him thrown out, and by god he had to be there to protect Sherlock.

Protect Sherlock.

Protect Sherlock…..John sucked in a breath, his heart now rising from its pit until it seemed stuck in his throat. He looked around him: everyone was focussed on this scene, all the nurses, all the cleaners, even all the patients. No one would notice if someone slipped past them, into a room guarded by no one, where the patient was completely defenceless, not with such a distraction…

This was what this had been: Straker giving Slaney a clear path to his victim, sacrificing himself so they may complete their deed.

“Oh my god-” John breathed, pelting over to Sherlock’s room, scolding himself for his idiocy and praying he was not too late.

                                                                                ***

It took Sherlock almost five full seconds to realise that he was being suffocated by a pillow, and it took another five before he realised he should probably do something, and his weakened reflexes kicked in. his arms felt odd as he raised them up, trying to bat off Slaney, but his movements were weak and sluggish. He thrashed weakly in the bed, adrenaline kicking in as he struggled to find oxygen.

“Aww, poor Sherlock, how it must feel to be at my mercy.” He heard Slaney say, and the pressure on the pillow increased. “This is much better than killing you in a car crash, much more satisfying.”

Sherlock was starting to become confused, black dots appearing in front of his eyes. He vaguely thought of John, and where he might be. Sherlock hoped he was safe.

                                                                                 ***

John thought that his heart might literally leap from his throat as he was greeted with the sight in Sherlock’s room. Kiera was huddled in the corner, tears in her eyes and arms crossed over body defensively, whilst a man who was undoubtedly Slaney was pressing a pillow over Sherlock’s face, a moving Sherlock’s face….

John did not have time to think on what he hoped was his best friend’s emergence from a coma, and  not just a subconscious reflex, before he had sprung forward, grabbing Slaney by the back of his hospital scrubs and throwing him away from Sherlock. John was upon him in less than a second, immobilising his legs before throwing punches at him in a fit of anger, releasing the emotions that had built up as a storm inside him for almost a month.

Slaney stared down at him with a vicious glare, and suddenly John found himself on the ground and a deep and resonating pain spreading in his stomach as he was mercilessly punched in the gut. He heard Kiera make a whimpering sound and John looked over at her, blinking rapidly and trying not to emit the wracking coughs that threatened to burst from him, to see her hands covering her mouth and tears leaking from her eyes. She was staring at Sherlock’s bed.

 _‘Oh god, no…’_ John thought, turning as he raised himself gingerly on his knees. He was expecting the sight of Sherlock lying deathly still in bed, lips blue and body void of any breath. A corpse. Instead he was met with the sight of Slaney dragging a heaving, barely conscious (‘ _conscious!_ ’) Sherlock upright, knife held to his throat. Sherlock’s eyes were barely open; face shockingly pale, and his arms hung limply by his sides, not even trying to resist Slaney.

John raised himself from the floor as swiftly as he could, nostrils flaring and hands clenching into fists. This man did not dare to hurt his friend again, not after all the pain he had caused, not after what he had done to Sherlock.

“Ethan,” John spoke calmly, though he hardly felt like it after his punching session on Slaney, “put him down, you’ve done enough damage.”

Slaney sniggered, looking relaxed, one knee resting on Sherlock’s mattress, despite having a knife to a man’s throat. “I don’t think so, Dr Watson. Shall we explain to the doctor what you did to me, Sherlock?” he addressed the barely conscious man, hissing in his ear. “Shall we explain how you sold me out, just so you could _show off_?”

Sherlock made a sound alarmingly close to a whimper, looking disorientated, and John’s heart clenched in both sorrow and anger. If Slaney wasn’t careful, then John really _would_ kill him. John assessed his situation: he couldn’t risk calling for Mycroft’s men without Sherlock getting his throat slit, not could he reach far enough to press the emergency call button, and then again he knew Slaney would not hesitate in taking Sherlock’s life.

John took a step forward, hand outreached. “Just put down the knife, Ethan, and you can explain why you want to kill Sherlock, okay? How does that sound?”

Slaney laughed again, “Don’t patronise me, Dr Watson. Despite what I know you’re thinking, I am not insane. No, I’m just delivering justice where it is due.”

John heart rate was increasing rapidly, his breaths short and fast, almost the same as Sherlock’s. “I do not think you are insane, Ethan, I just want you to put down the knife. Surely whatever Sherlock did to you does not warrant you becoming a murderer?”

Slaney snarled then, reinforcing his grip of Sherlock, shaking the man’s weak body around, making John worry even more. “He doesn’t get it, does he Sherlock? I would let you explain, but you’re just too pathetic right now, aren’t you?” Slaney giggled manically, and then John really did start to doubt his sanity, “Look at what I’ve done to you! You know, I was going to poison your IV line, but this is so much better, because now I get to see you _bleed_.”

“ **No!** ” John growled, losing all semblance of calm, making to rush forward, and Slaney backed up, dragging Sherlock from the bed. Sherlock’s legs collapsed against him, not being able to take his weight. John worried now Slaney might do harm to Sherlock’s only half-healed broken leg. IV lines were pulled from his arms, as were the oxygen prongs from his nose. Slaney backed towards the door, arms trembling from the exertion of holding Sherlock up, the knife shaking in his hand, coming ever closer to Sherlock’s throat.

“Slaney put down the knife!” John all but shouted, desperate now. “Please don’t.”

“Oh, now you’re begging with me! Look at that Sherlock; you’ve finally got _someone’s_ attention!” Slaney addressed Sherlock, whose eyes had all but closed and was a deathly white pallor. “You know, Dr Watson, I don’t really understand how you can be friends with him, I mean: think of all the pain he’s caused people, all the pain he’s caused you. Because I bet he has…”  
“Shut up.” John ordered, concentrating on breathing evenly. He would not think about any of the wrongs Sherlock had done, not now…

“But seriously though,” Slaney continued, pressing the blade to Sherlock’s throat and pressing down a little bit, “I’m doing you a favour really.”

And then, before John could do anything more than lunge forward a bit more, Slaney’s head was propelled forward, a look of confusion in his eyes. The knife fell from his grasp, clattering to the floor. Slaney dropped to the floor like a stone, eyes rolling into his skull, bringing Sherlock with him. And there stood Mycroft, on the precipice of the room, holding the wrong end of his umbrella, and brandishing the handle like a club.

“Bastard.” He muttered, staring down disdainfully at a now unconscious Ethan Slaney.

                                                                                    ***

It took less thank five seconds before Mycroft’s men were in the room, hoisting up Slaney from the floor and dragging him away. Mycroft stopped them at the doorway.

“You know what to do.”

The nearest guard nodded. “Yes, Sir. And the other man?”

Mycroft eyes narrowed for a moment. “The same.” He decided.

The man nodded, and the two guards left with the unconscious Slaney.

“ _Sherlock_.” John said, coming out of a trance now Slaney had gone.  He had been utterly amazed at the display Mycroft had shown, feeling a certain newfound respect for the elder Holmes brother.

He rushed towards Sherlock, how was lying on the floor, face down and still. The rain was like static in John ears, and all he could focus on now was Sherlock. Gently he turned Sherlock around so he was lying on his back. Sherlock was still gasping for breath, and John tapped his cheek gently, praying that the man regained consciousness again.

“Sherlock, come on, mate. Can you hear me?” Mycroft came to kneel next to John and firmly placed his thumb above the cut made when the IV had been ripped from Sherlock’s arm, but John paid him no attention, focussing on his best friend. “Sherlock? Can you hear me?” he repeated.

Sherlock’s eyes started to flutter, and John tapped his cheek even harder, other hand going for Sherlock’s pulse on his neck.

“John, his throat is bleeding.” Mycroft said firmly. Only then did John notice that Slaney had nicked Sherlock’s throat with his blade. John immediately made to examine it.

“It’s only shallow, there’s no serious harm done.” He assured Mycroft, his heart returning to his chest somewhat.

“Here.” Came a voice from above them, and John looked up in surprise to see Kiera holding out some gauze to John. The nurse looked flustered, but relieved. John took the gauze with a terse nod.

“Ethan was my boyfriend,” Kiera explained, coming to kneel next to John. John shot her a confused look while Mycroft scrutinised her knowingly. “He….he forced me to give him and hi-his friend clearance into the hospital.” She turned up her scrub sleeve with a shaky hand to reveal hand shaped bruises on her upper arm. John swallowed, the anger at Slaney burning ever stronger within him.

“I’m sorry….” Kiera muttered, and John raised the hand that wasn’t pressing the gauze to Sherlock’s neck out to Kiera in a pacifying gesture.

“It isn’t your fault, Kiera. Slaney’s been caught and Sherlock hasn’t been harmed, okay? None of this is your fault.”

Kiera nodded gratefully, and took a steadying breath before getting up in order to get Sherlock’s doctor. John turned back to Sherlock, and his heart leapt as he saw Sherlock’s eyes fully opening.

“Sherlock?” he called. His best friend blinked lazily for a moment, seeking out his voice before his gaze came to rest on John, eyes taking a while to focus.

“John…?” he whispered, voice rough and weak from disuse. And suddenly, for the first time in almost a month, the storm in John’s head cleared up, the rain stopping and a fresh breeze was swept through him, giving him new life and new hope.

John smiled widely, “Sherlock…it’s good to see you.”

Sherlock took a shuddering breath, heart rate slowing to normal, and his gaze travelled over the room, brow furrowing. “Wha’…?” he croaked.

“It’s alright, you’ve just….” John tried to explain to Sherlock but found that he couldn’t. Strangely, he started to laugh. Sherlock gazed at him befuddled.

“Brother dear, you’ve been in a coma for almost a month.”  Mycroft said, and Sherlock’s gaze finally came to rest on his brother. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly, his marvellous brain already deducing and processing minutes after waking from a coma.

“Knew it.” He muttered, which made John laugh even harder and Mycroft role his eyes and sigh.

Sherlock looked even more confused by their reactions, and John managed to sober up enough to ask him: “How do you feel?”

Sherlock took a moment before he answered weakly, “Strange.”

John smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I think ‘strange’ is normal in these circumstances.”

At that moment Kiera returned with Sherlock’s doctor, who looked rather alarmed to see his patient lying on the floor. “Come on,” John said to Sherlock, removing the gauze from his neck, hardly bleeding any more, “Let’s get you back into bed.”

Within a few minutes John and Mycroft had raised Sherlock from the ground and managed to half-drag, half-carry Sherlock to the bed and onto it. Sherlock’s doctor then took his turn to assess Sherlock’s condition, taking his pulse and blood pressure, and asking him questions about whom he was and where he was as Kiera re-attached Sherlock to the IV line.

“This is most marvellous,” the doctor said, turning to John and Mycroft. “It is uncommon for someone to be so alert after waking from a coma. Very unusual.” He muttered.

John smiled, and his mood got even lighter, chasing away any lingering clouds. “That’s Sherlock.”

The doctor left soon after, announcing to John that Sherlock was no longer in need of the oxygen prongs and that none of his injuries had suffered from Sherlock’s forced extraction from his bed. As for the suffocation attempt, the doctor informed him he would book him an MRI scan to check for brain damage as soon as possible, but that it was very unlikely there would be any. Sherlock himself was now looking like he was finding it rather hard to stay awake, still horribly pale, and John bit his lip, coming forward to sit on the bed next to him.

“You had me extremely worried, you git.” He said good-naturedly, and Sherlock’s brow furrowed again as he struggled to focus on John.

“I know…” he whispered, looking irritated by the irregular sound of his voice.

John frowned. “You do?”

Sherlock moved his head slightly in a nod, “Could hear you…sometimes…”

John’s eyebrows shot up, and he felt his ears turn red. It was stupid, he shouldn’t be embarrassed; Sherlock was his best friend, and even if he had heard what John said, Sherlock wasn’t the best at emotions and so probably wouldn’t understand much of what John was saying. “Oh….” He murmured.

“John…” John looked up as Sherlock reached out a shaky hand in the direction of his arm. “Thank you…”

And that was all John needed to hear.


	11. the skies have cleared

“Uncle Sh-wock!”

John turned at the delighted cry of his daughter, watching from his usual place in the chair by the bed as Elizabeth toddled towards Sherlock as fast as she could on her short, podgy legs. Sherlock himself was lying in the bed, but the bed itself was elevated so that he could hold proper conversations. Sherlock was still pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes, but at least he was awake, John thought, smiling.

“Hello, Elizabeth.” Sherlock said, for once amused at the toddler’s vicariousness rather than exasperated. John helped a struggling Elizabeth climb onto Sherlock’s bed, and the toddler immediately reached out to hug her god-father, whose arms came around her small back too, shaking a little; Sherlock had only woken up the day before, and his muscles still needed time to recover from his comatose state.

“You’re awake!” the toddler exclaimed, leaning back from Sherlock, supported by his hands still on her back as she peered up at his face. Mary moved from her position by the door to stand next to John’s chair, and the parents watched their daughter giggle with delight at the sight of her conscious uncle.

“Yes...” Sherlock said softly, tone agreeable. His voice was a little rough from the weeks of disuse.

“That was a long sleep, Uncle Sh-wock!” she reprimanded, reaching up to tug on his hair. Sherlock had to bend his head forwards as chubby hands grasped onto his locks, and he looked half agitated, half resigned to his scalp’s poor treatment.

“I know…” he replied, looking up from under his fringe to John and Mary for help. Mary just raised her eyebrows, shrugging as if to say ‘what do you want me to do?’, while John chuckled before reaching out and carefully detaching Elizabeth’s hands from Sherlock’s hair.

“Leave Uncle Sherlock’s hair alone for now, Lizzie,” John reprimanded, sitting back again. “Your Uncle is still very tired.”

Elizabeth looked confused at this. “But, he had long sleep; he shouldn’t be tired ‘nanymore.”

John gave her a warm smile, moved by the childish logic of the two year old.

“Precisely.” Sherlock grumbled, obviously vexed by his current state. Elizabeth giggled at Sherlock, who looked at the child perturbed.

Mary sighed, walking round to the bed and picking her daughter off of Sherlock’s lap. “Come on, you. Let’s go and see what sweets we can find, hmm, as a special treat?”

The toddler squealed in delight, and John chuckled as Mary left the room with the wriggling and excited child, closing the door quietly behind her.

John turned to Sherlock to see the man blinking blearily, a shaky hand reaching to pinch the bridge of his nose, pulling on the IV line.

“Careful,” John remonstrated, pulling Sherlock’s hand away slowly. Sherlock sighed, glaring at him. “Don’t give me that look.” John said, raising his eyebrow, yet his spirits were high and he felt rejuvenated inside and out, mind clear. The previous night had been the best sleep he’d had since Sherlock’s hospitalisation, and the permanent rain cloud that had been haunting him seemed to decapitate. Sherlock still had a long way to go until he was fully recovered: his broken leg still had to heal, and he would have to go through some physiotherapy before his limbs would regain their previous strength, not to mention his left arm, its serious wound would cause Sherlock discomfort for a while, as well as the wound on his side.

“What did you mean you could hear me?” John asked suddenly. He and Sherlock hadn’t had a chance to speak since the detective’s return to consciousness, his best friend being swamped with doctors and nurse, dragging him away for an MRI which, fortunately, showed no damage to Sherlock’s precious brain.

Sherlock shifted on the bed. “Hear you?” John knew Sherlock knew what he was talking about, but this was bordering on sentiment and he knew how uncomfortable that made Sherlock. Still, he wanted answers.

“Yes, when you were in a coma.”

Sherlock sighed, and John smiled slightly as he watched Sherlock try to put his thoughts into words. It was so great to have Sherlock there, meaning the whole of Sherlock, not just a slack face on a pillow and a still body on a bed.

“To explain it briefly,” Sherlock croaked, reaching for the cup of water on the bedside table and taking a large gulp, “I seemed to be trapped in my mind palace, unable to get out until I had uncovered the…case that surrounded my incapacitation.”

John frowned, “Wait, so you knew about Slaney and the Strakers?”

Sherlock nodded. “From the times that I was able to hear the ‘outside world’, if you will, I was able to piece together the case of my own attempted murder. Neat, don’t you think?”

John chuckled, rather taken aback, amazed Sherlock had still been solving crimes while stuck in a coma.

Suddenly, John had a thought. Had Sherlock heard anything else while unconscious yet present? Had he heard John’s heartfelt words at times when everything felt hopeless? John assumed that he should be embarrassed if Sherlock had, but he really couldn’t bring himself to be.

“Sherlock, that is umm…” he broke of, trying to gather his thoughts, “…bloody amazing.”

Sherlock gave a faint smile, rolling his eyes. He placed the cup back onto the bedside table. “Well I’m glad you didn’t tell me to ‘piss off’, John. I’m afraid I cannot move with much haste at the moment.” His lip curled up slightly at his weakness.

John chuckled, deciding that maybe he would leave off the subject for a little while, not wanting to crowd Sherlock so soon.

                                                                   ***

Mary was having a tricky time getting Elizabeth to pick a sweet treat from the vending machine she’d stumbled upon when Mycroft appeared from around a corner and strutted down the corridor, his umbrella swinging to and fro.

“Good morning, Mrs Watson, so pleasant to see you and your…little _goldfish_.” He said, upper lip curled and Mary turned to him, Elizabeth staring perplexed, attention taken away from the sweets and onto Mycroft.

“Goldfish?” Mary asked, “Is that supposed to be insulting or endearing?”

Mycroft just kept staring at the child, who was gazing back with no fear in her eyes, unlike some of his employees. Very much John Watson’s daughter, then. “That is up for you to decide.”

“Right…” Mary said, shifting on her feet a little. “John is with Sherlock at the moment.” She said, just for the sake of having something to say.

Mycroft gave a thin lipped smile, “Yes, I know.” He said, with an omniscient tone.

Mary just nodded, shifting once again. She knew Mycroft was very suspicious of her since she’d shot Sherlock and the revelation of her past self, which in turn made her wary of him, aware of the power he had.

“It must be a relief,” Mary said, words cutting through the silence like a knife, “now that your brother is awake?”

“Quite,” replied Mycroft, tapping his umbrella against the ground, knowing right now that he was making her uncomfortable and enjoying it a way only the ‘Iceman’ could. “Our parents are over the moon, so to speak, but I have convinced Mummy not to pounce on Sherlock now that he is finally conscious.”

“Good for you,” Mary replied, shifting Elizabeth on her hip, “your mother explains where you and Sherlock get your stubbornness.”

Mycroft smirked, “Indeed.  However, after years of refining my technique, I have managed to get sway over her. Well, sometimes.” He admitted sheepishly, after Mary raised her eyebrows. “Sherlock on the other hand, has always been rather pathetic at attempting to convince our mother anything he does will not be dangerous in any way.”

Mary snorted, and Elizabeth gurgled in her arms, reaching out towards to vending machine, attention on food once again. “Well, I suppose you should go visit him now while he’s still awake; he’s still very exhausted.”

Mycroft hummed, looking at her carefully. Their eyes met and they stood staring each other out until Elizabeth broke the tension, hitting Mary’s cheek with her hand in order to get her attention.

“Nice to see you, Mrs Watson.” Mycroft finally said, “And your _goldfish_.” And before Mary could reply, he had disappeared down the corridor.

                                                                                 ***

“Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted as he swung the door open, causing John’s head to whip around suddenly and his neck to make a cracking noise. “John.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock croaked, staring at him.

“Good to see you looking less… _peaky_ than yesterday, brother mine. Although, being suffocated and held at knifepoint does seem to have such an effect, doesn’t it?” Mycroft said, closing the door behind him.

“And it’s nice to know there is actually a purpose to your…” Sherlock cleared his aching throat, “carrying around that umbrella all day.”

Mycroft smiled thinly, and unspoken gratitude passed between the brothers.

“I came to inform you that all conspirators in your attempted murder have been detained by my men and shall be….dealt with shortly.” Mycroft said after a moment.  John looked up sharply, stopping in his rubbing his aching neck, “And that I have managed to convince Mummy that she and father should not visit for a few days.”

And then Sherlock smirked, a look John hadn’t seen for weeks. “No you haven’t.” he commented drily, and just at that moment the door was flung open and Mycroft had to move faster than John had ever seen him move as Mrs Holmes bustled through the door, followed shortly by her husband.

“Sherlock!” she cried, embracing Sherlock into a careful but tight hug, pressing her face into his curls. “Oh, darling.” She whispered.

“Mother.” Sherlock muttered, sounding annoyed and more, face pressed against his mother’s chest. Mr Holmes in the meanwhile was watching on, obviously wanting to see his son but letting his wife get her turn first. “You don’t have to _hug_ me like this.”

“Oh, shush!” Mrs Holmes pulled back, cupping Sherlock’s face with her hands, and examining him closely. “I know you don’t like it, but you are my son and I am so relieved you are alright!”

“I am too, Sherlock.” Mr Holmes cut in, placing a hand briefly on Sherlock’s upper arm. Sherlock stared at him, his face still cupped in his mother’s hands, pleading with him silently for his freedom. Mr Holmes just gave his son a resigned smile.

 Nothing could stop Mrs Holmes when she was determined, John thought as he watched the scene, not even Mycroft, apparently.

Speak of the devil, John then thought, as Mycroft suddenly cleared his throat. “John,” he began, “would you mind having a word with me outside whilst Sherlock is under the ministrations of our mother?”

“Of course,” john replied, glancing back at Sherlock, still being coddled by his mother, just to make sure he was aright. With one final look he got up and left the room.

He and Mycroft wondered down the corridor for a while until they came to a window. Peering out John saw it was lightly drizzling, but nothing compared to the vicious storm they had been plagued with for weeks. Rain seemed to be a recurring theme in his life lately.

“I need to tell you that once Sherlock is more recovered, he shall be required to indentify Ethan Slaney, David Cubitt and Strakers junior and senior. Until then proper…punishment cannot be distributed.”

John nodded, recognising the ominous tone in Mycroft’s voice and understanding what he meant by ‘proper’. “Alright...” he said, and then added, “and you couldn’t tell him this why?”

Mycroft shrugged slightly. “I would have, but our mother arrived and I did not want to stay in the room whilst she continued on with her… _sentiment_.”

John laughed, “So you ran away?”

Mycroft looked rather embarrassed, which was for him a look as though he had eaten sour lemons. “No, I simply decided to take a course of action which was much more suited to me.”

John snorted, “Right….”

John’s laughter tapered off as the two men stared out the window at the rain, both lost in their thoughts. After a few moments, John made the decision to do something that was necessary, though embarrassing. “I guess I should thank you for your actions yesterday.” He began, turning to Mycroft. “I did not think, I just did, and for that Sherlock almost suffered.”

Mycroft observed him for a moment, before giving a curt nod. “Quite.” John nodded back, turning back to the window, embarrassed but relieved that that certain conversation was done with.

“John,” Mycroft said suddenly a few minutes later, just as John was going to suggest they head back. “I must thank you for your continued support of my brother through this ordeal, and through previous ordeals.” Mycroft said stiffly, smoothing out his tie. “I recognise that you only left him unguarded in an effort to protect him, an ironic action, one could admit, regarding further actions by Ethan Slaney, but it is, I think, clear to me that you are the first person to whom my brother is not scared to show sentiment. You make my brother better, John, and I must thank you for it.”

John swallowed, completely taken aback by Mycroft’s words. He had not been expecting this from the elder Holmes brother, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. ‘Make my brother better’? Do I, John thought, wondering what influence he might have had and too modest to recognise any. “Well,” he replied, “he’s my best friend.”

Mycroft smiled, “Best friend.” He stated, “I never thought my brother would have one of those.”  
                                                                                      ***

A couple of days later, Lestrade came bustling into the physiotherapy suite of the hospital, with a coffee in one hand and his mobile in the other.

“John, Sherlock.” He greeted, coming over, “The staff said you’d be in here.”

John was sat next to an aggravated Sherlock, wrapped in his silk dressing gown as the detective exercised his left arm using a small weight. The hospital’s physiotherapist shot Lestrade an annoyed look, but Lestrade just flashed his badge at him and gave him a look that said ‘what are you going to do about it?’

“Sherlock, how are you feeling?” Lestrade asked, dragging a chair over and sitting down opposite them.

Sherlock glared at him, and then at the physiotherapist, “I. Am. Fine.” He said between his teeth. John and Lestrade shared a look.

“Yes, well, you’re recovery has been very swift, Mr Holmes, and your muscles are coping very well.”

“So why must I be forced to undertake an exercise that is so seemingly boring?” Sherlock indicated the small weight in his left palm.

“Relax, Sherlock, it’ll only be for a couple more days and then you can go home.”

Sherlock just sighed.

“Listen, I didn’t want to do this so soon after you have woken up,” Lestrade interjected, knowing he had a time limit. “But I need to get a statement from you Sherlock, about the incident and on any motives… you know?”

Sherlock nodded, “Of course.” He placed the weight down next to him on the bench he and John were sat on, and leaned forward, steepling his hands under his chin.

Lestrade gave the physiotherapist a side glance as he got out his notepad and pen, and the man begrudgingly left.

“So, let’s start with…what do you remember of the crash?”

“Most of it, I was able to access the scene in my mind palace to figure out who was involved.”

Lestrade just stared at him, before rolling his eyes. John smiled. “Right….

“So you are aware that David Cubitt, your cab driver, had criminal intent as he was driving you?”

Sherlock sighed, “Yes, and I am also aware of the involvement of Jeffery and Philip Straker and Ethan Slaney.”

Lestrade just nodded, “Great, right.”

He took a moment to note down something before asking, “And do you know why all four accomplices had the intent of murdering you?”

“I suspect Cubitt was drawn in by his friendship with the Strakers, and they and Slaney had a desire for revenge.”

“Revenge for what?” Lestrade asked.

“My turning them in ten years ago. You should remember, Lestrade, you were there.” Sherlock said, leaning back on the bench.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes in thought, before nodding his agreement. “I do.”

“Jeffrey Straker was one of my drug suppliers at the time,” Sherlock went on, for the benefit of John, “And Slaney worked close with both of the Strakers.”

“But you were an addict, why would you turn them in?” Lestrade asked, perplexed.

“Oh, what, do you think the junkie didn’t have the brains to take the best course of action, too high on whatever it was he’d injected himself with?” Sherlock asked in scorn, voice croaking as he put more force behind his words.

“No!” Lestrade protested.

“Alright, just….Sherlock, tell Lestrade why you turned them in, and Greg, if you don’t mind can we wrap this up?” John interjected, giving Lestrade a look that said _‘Sherlock is grouchy and tired and before long will throw a hissy fit and you know it.’_

“Right, yes,” Lestrade coughed. “So…why did you turn them in?”

Sherlock sighed, “Because what they were doing was illegal. More illegal than what the other dealers were doing. Their payments back to their suppliers was short of what it should have been for the amount of drugs they were given. I was saving them from a much worse fate than prison.”

 Lestrade nodded, noting that down. “Right, is that all?”

“No, they were also very annoying.” Sherlock said bluntly.

“Okay.” Lestrade said sighing, then after a moment, “Hang on, Slaney and Philip Straker escaped, why on earth they weren’t hounded upon by these other suppliers once these people realised?”

“Because a couple of days later I gave Scotland Yard the hint of where their base might be, and they were shut down and imprisoned within a month.” Sherlock said simply.

Lestrade nodded, closing his notepad and looking at Sherlock with humour in his eyes. “You seemed to be keen on handing over dealers to the police. For a junkie.”

Sherlock looked affronted at the question, “You were threatening to refuse me access if I did not stop with the drugs. Without work I was nothing.”

‘ _Was_ nothing.’  John picked up on, smiling. Was. Because now Sherlock had others things to live for, his friends for a start, and although his work was still important to him and the only thing that big brain could focus on at times, John suddenly realised what Mycroft had meant when he had said John made Sherlock better. It was because John had been there for him, as his friend. His best friend.

                                                                                        ***

The sky was bright and clear the day of Sherlock’s discharge from hospital. It was all rather poetic, John thought, as he watched Sherlock enter his hospital room from where he’d been changing in the bathroom, complaining he could not get his trousers over the cast on his leg,  that the sun should come out just as everything started to look up for him, for Sherlock. For them.

“John, for god’s sake, what am I supposed to do about this?!” Sherlock demanded, supporting himself on the doorframe, right leg shaking with effort.

John sighed, “Just wear your pyjama trousers, the cast fits under them and you’re not going anywhere expect mine and Mary’s.”

Sherlock huffed. The day previous Mycroft and John had agreed it would be wise for Sherlock to spend some time at John and Mary’s in order to rest and recuperate better than he would do on his own back at Baker Street, as Mrs Hudson would not be there to help him twenty-four seven. Sherlock had only agreed begrudgingly.

“But there is _press_ out there, John; this will do nothing for my reputation.”

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Greg had notified them that the press were outside, and the best they could do was to get through them as quick as possible, a bit tricky with Sherlock with a cast on his leg and not so great on his crutches yet.

“Well, wear your coat over them and no one will notice.”

Sherlock seemed to contemplate this for a moment before deciding he was too tired to do any more strenuous activities such as changing and acquiesced. “Fine.” And grumbling he disappeared into the bathroom.

John smiled, taking Sherlock’s coat out of the plastic bag it had been handed to him in by the hospital staff. It had been cleaned thoroughly since the crash, but John still grimaced at the thought that it had been covered in blood. Sherlock’s blood.

“John!” Sherlock called from the bathroom, “I might be a bit…stuck.”

John chuckled, walking over and knocking lightly on the door before opening it and stepping inside. Sherlock was sat on the toilet seat with one pyjama leg on but the other off. John sighed, grabbing the other leg and rolling it up, before carefully placing it over Sherlock’s cast and drawing it up his leg.

“Thank you.” Sherlock said quietly, pulling the trousers all the way up before slumping onto the toilet seat, catching his breath. John collected his discarded suit trousers from the floor and was just about to leave when he head Sherlock say quietly, “I heard you.”

John turned, the words sounding familiar to his ears, from a time when he had also been thankful for Sherlock’s presence. John stared at him.

“What you said was umm…good.” Sherlock said, looking uncomfortable, as he always did when he tried to express his raw emotions. “And I’m grateful. Thank you, John.”

John smiled at him, and Sherlock gave him a wry grin back. “It’s okay.” He replied, “It’s all fine.”

                                                                                    ***

A little while later and Sherlock and John were wading through the crowds of press and photographers, Lestrade hollering at people to get out of the way, and Sherlock hobbling to the car sent especially by Mycroft, stubbornly on crutches. John followed and, just to be sure, took a glance up at the sky, seeing it was vivid blue, without a cloud to dapple its serene beauty, and smiled, mind clear, knowing that at last the storm was over. 


	12. Epilogue

 

“No, stop it! Stop it! John, get your…spawn to stop it!”

The aggravated cries of Sherlock filled Mary and John’s apartment in the cool light of the wintry

morning. John chuckled and walked into the living room from the kitchen, mug in one hand and tea

 in the other. Sherlock was draped across their sofa, broken leg propped up on a number of pillows, and much to his resentment Elizabeth was doodling on the cast, using a variety of different colours, the predominant being pink.

John laughed, “Spawn? And I thought you were getting fonder of her!”

“I was,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth, “until she started drawing…butterflies on my cast!”

Elizabeth giggled at this, obviously enjoying the continued presence of her god-father in her house, and his portable drawing board.

“Well, I can’t stop the development of my child, Sherlock, so you’re just going to have to put up with it.”

Sherlock growled, throwing his head back against the pillow resting on the couch arm. “Fine.”

Elizabeth giggled up at him again, and John smiled at the pair. Sherlock had been living with the Watsons for a week now, and he seemed much brighter already. The wound on his side and his left arm aggravated him at times, but Sherlock’s big problem was the large cast supporting his left leg.

“Are you sure you’re ready to go today?” John asked Sherlock, bending down next to his daughter, making sure all the lids were safely secured on her felt tips, before the ink ran into the fabric of the sofa. Mary would **not** be happy if that were to happen.

“Of course I’m ready John; this is the hundredth time you’ve asked!”

“That’s a little bit of an exaggeration.” John said, rising again. “I’ve only asked three times.”

Today was the day Sherlock was being called into identify the culprits of his almost murder. John was feeling tense about it, worrying that if he set his eyes on those bastards again, he would end up with cracked knuckles and then some.

Sherlock sniffed, picking up a random book from the table across from him, _‘Beekeeping, the practical guide’_ , and flicked it open.

“Oh, John?” Sherlock asked just as John was returning to the kitchen, “Have you seen my scarf? The striped one?”

John thought back, he hadn’t seen it among the possessions taken from Sherlock’s flat for his stay at his. “No, I haven’t, sorry.”

“Well I need it!” Sherlock demanded, “I cannot possibly go out in my other one: the silk has been ruined by the hospital washing powders!”

John sighed, placing the tea towel and the mug on the side table. “Can’t you borrow one of mine?”

Sherlock turned to him, eyebrow raised.

“Fine, fine!” John acquiesced. “I’ll phone Mycroft, get Anthea to go and get it…” he pulled out his phone, but was stopped by Sherlock before he could dial.

“I’m not having her going through my things!” Sherlock protested, John sighed again. Sherlock was being _really_ tricky today.

“Right, okay, fine, I’ll have to wait until Mary wakes up, though.”

Sherlock frowned, “Why?”

“Because I’m not sure if I trust you with Lizzie while I’m gone.”

Sherlock looked affronted, “I’m her god-father; you should.” John paused, looking down and feeling thoroughly guilty. “And anyway,” Sherlock continued, “did you forget that Mary invited Molly over for lunch? She’ll be over here in twenty…three minutes, and going by the ratio of time Mary spent up with Elizabeth last night and the amount of sleep she has gained this morning, she should be awake in fifteen minutes.” Sherlock stated. Elizabeth watched him, mouth open.

John let out a breathy laugh. “I see-”

“-And twenty eight seconds.” Sherlock added, before turning to John and smiling slightly. “Please John?”  
John laughed, “Yes, fine, I’ll go.” Sherlock nodded and turned back to his book. “Just…don’t spill pen ink on the sofa, you two.”

“I assure you that won’t happen.” Sherlock said absentmindedly, whilst Elizabeth just kept scribbling on Sherlock’s cast.

“Right, see you later then.” John said. Neither replied. John rolled his eyes and went to the front door.

                                                                                        ***

The roads had been rather busy, meaning it took John longer to arrive at Baker Street that it normally would have. Mrs Hudson was absolutely delighted to see him, asking after Sherlock and promising to visit soon with more cake (“More for little Elizabeth than Sherlock, but I know you’ll make sure he eats some anyway, John.”), and John has suggested she return with him, just in time for lunch.

“Oh, I’d be delighted!” She cried, clapping her rubber gloved covered hands, soap bubbles bursting forth. “Just let me spruce up and I will be with you when you’ve gotten everything of Sherlock’s.”

John had climbed the seventeen stairs up to 221B whilst she’d hurried off to her own flat, and he closed the door quietly behind him. The flat was made up of the usual organised chaos, but the stillness in the air was unpleasant to John, it reminded him too much of the years when Sherlock had been “dead”, and he shuddered slightly at the sight.

Taking a deep breath, John pushed those thoughts away and made his way to Sherlock’s room at the back. It was as impeccable as he’d seen it on the various occasions he’s been in there, normally when Sherlock had been injured and drugged, Irene Adler coming to the forefront of his mind. John took a moment just to look at it all, everything screamed ‘Sherlock’ to him, it even smelled slightly like the man, tobacco and posh shampoo, even if the scent was slightly diminished due to Sherlock’s absence recently.

John took a deep breath, heading toward Sherlock’s wardrobe. He pulled the doors open, searching around for his scarves, but only finding Sherlock’s designed suits and another bell-staff. He closed the doors again, and embarked on wading through Sherlock’s chest of drawers. He avoided the top right drawer, knowing that was where Sherlock kept his socks, and John was not going to risk messing up his sock index. John was fortunate that when he opened the top left draw he was greeted with the plethora of scarves, all in a different shade of blue. John peered around, searching for the striped one; it was stuffed right at the back, and John grabbed it along with a couple of others.

Just as he was about to slam the drawer shut, however, something caught his eye. There was something stuffed right at the back of the drawer, and John cautiously reached out, hoping it wasn’t toxic in any way. He was surprised however when his hand grabbed onto a square corner, and as he pulled it out, it was revealed to him the object was a photograph. Frowning, John placed the scarves down on the top of the chest of drawers, and took as closer look at the photo. What he saw made his heart swoop and melt all at once. It was a very faded photo, but John could make out the image of a flame red dog sitting down next to a crouching child with tousled curls, piercing blue eyes and a genuine smile on his face. The photo wasn’t posed, but rather taken at a moment when this young Sherlock Holmes was truly happy. John smiled at the photo, taken aback by the sudden evidence of Sherlock’s childhood. He did not know much, Sherlock was not one to talk about his childhood and John had never been told about the dog in the photo, but it looked like it had made Sherlock genuinely happy.

John turned the photo over, looking for an inscription, and was rewarded with a small note written in handwriting that swooped and swept, not dissimilar to Sherlock’s, which read:

_‘Sherlock and Redbeard, May 16 th 1985’_

Redbeard? John felt a nagging memory at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t reach it no matter how hard he tried. He’d definitely heard that name before. Shaking his head in affection of Sherlock pushing his memories of childhood into the back of his scarf drawer, John replaced the photo, deciding he’d not mention his discovery of it at that time, Sherlock being more grouchy than usual. Making sure the photo was well hidden; John shut the drawer and, picking up the scarves, left the room.

                                                                                      ***

“…and that was the first time I realised it’s not just about the moment, but also the gratifica-”

Sherlock let out a groan of frustration, drawing his hands through his hair and over his face. Mary and Molly turned to him as he cut Molly off with his exclamation, Molly jumping and Mary raising an eyebrow. Elizabeth was down for a nap at the moment, and John had texted he would be longer than usual because of traffic, so now it was just Sherlock with Mary and Molly while the two females had… _woman talk_.

“Yes Sherlock?” Molly said tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, face visibly flushed. Oh, perhaps she had forgotten he was there?

Sherlock brought his hands down to his lap, “Do you have to talk about that… _now_?”

Molly straightened slightly, frowning slightly, “Am _I_ making _you_ uncomfortable?”

Sherlock stared for a moment before Mary and Molly both burst into giggles. Instantly he shot both of them a filthy glare and tried to turn on his side, away from them and facing the back of the couch, but his broken leg made the process difficult and the wound on his side pulled harshly, making him wince.

The door slammed suddenly, and John’s voice could be heard calling “I’m home!”

‘Thank god!’ Sherlock thought, shuffling round into a more comfortable position.

“What are you laughing at?” John asked Mary and Molly as he came into the room. They both laughed harder at his question, and John just shook his head, bewildered.

“Here’s your scarf.” He threw the striped one at Sherlock, covering his face with it.

“Thank you,” Sherlock muttered, drawing it away from his face and stuffing it in the pocket of his dressing gown.

“I brought someone with me…” John announced to the room, stepping back to let Mrs Hudson into the room, clutching a cake tin and smiling joyously at Sherlock, descending on him with a kiss to the cheek and a stroke of his hair.

“Oh, Sherlock!” She began, “It is lovely to see you looking so much more like your usual self. The flat really hasn’t been the same without you…both of you, really.” She turned to John, putting a hand on his arm.

John gave her an encouraging smile, “As soon as Sherlock’s stronger he’ll be back, and I promise to bring Elizabeth round more to visit.”

Mrs Hudson gave a delighted cry, clutching the cake tin tighter. Internally, Sherlock was also delighted at the prospect of more visits from John.

“Well, we’d better get lunch cooking, then,” Mary announced, getting up from her chair, “John, get everyone a cup of tea, will you?”

“Of course!” John said, placing the remaining scarves he held on the sofa next to Sherlock, who frowned and started folding them correctly. “Mrs Hudson, please take a seat.”

Mrs Hudson sat herself across from Molly as John and Mary left for the kitchen, seating herself at a comfortable position for her hip and placing the cake tin down on the side table.

“So Molly, dear,” Mrs Hudson began, “how is your love life going then?”

Sherlock stiffened before he turned and glared.

                                                                                        ***

Lunch was a long and pleasant affair, and the only one slightly bored by it was Sherlock, who had always found it hard to sit still with nothing to occupy his mind apart from food and mindless chatter. Mary, with John’s help, had made a delicious pasta meal, which everyone complimented her on. Even Elizabeth was allowed some, sat on Mary’s lap and sharing from her fork.

After a while of chatter about Mrs Hudson’s new cake recipe and Molly’s discovery of cat clothing online, John coughed, tapping his fork lightly against the side of his glass. Everyone hushed down, and Sherlock shifted in his seat, broken leg making him feel like a clumsy elephant.

“Um, this won’t take a moment,” John began, standing up hesitantly before deciding not to and sitting back down again. Mary and Sherlock made eye contact and both of them frowned in confusion. “but um, I’d just like to say that it’s been a difficult month or so, and um…well, I’m sure I’m correct in saying that we’re all very glad that you, Sherlock…that you are back with us?” Mrs Hudson made a sound of agreement and Elizabeth gurgled happily in Mary’s lap.

“And I’d just like to make a toast to celebrate,” John continued, raising his glass, “so: to Sherlock.”

“To Sherlock” everyone, sans Sherlock, called, lifting their glasses to the air.

“Sh-wock!” Elizabeth shouted, causing a round of laughter.

Sherlock stared and blinked for a moment, processing the even, before breaking out into a genuine smile.

                                                                          ***

The smell of leather filled John’s nostrils as he and Sherlock, striped scarf around his neck, travelled through London in one of Mycroft’s sleek black cars. The two had left the three women, and Elizabeth, munching on Mrs Hudson’s cake as they had been greeted by one of Mycroft’s chauffeurs and ushered in, Sherlock moving rather gracefully for someone on crutches.

Neither talked, lost in thought, as streets rushed past them as they ended up in some mysterious location, a black and grey building greeting them, along with…

“Mycroft, there was no need for you to come.” Sherlock growled as he hopped out of the car, John handing him his crutches so he could pull himself up.

“Of course there was. You know how I worry so, brother mine.” Mycroft replied, haughty as ever leaning upon his umbrella.

Sherlock opened his mouth to fire off a retort, but John stepped in front of him before he could. “Mycroft, if you will?”

Mycroft nodded, peering at John amused. “Of course, this way.”

Mycroft led them inside and through the posh atrium filled with spiky pot plants and through many corridors that gradually became dimmer and darker. John suspected they were now underground. Finally they reached an unassuming black door guarded by a suited man with a wire in his ear. Mycroft nodded to him. “Bring them.” He ordered. The man nodded and left, dishing out the orders over the wire. Mycroft turned to John and Sherlock. “Shall we?”

The room was meant for observation, and a window looked out into a room meant for a criminal line up. John and Sherlock would not come directly face to face with Sherlock’s attackers, and John felt slightly at ease by this.

Sherlock slumped into a chair by the window, dropping his crutches to the floor. The detective looked flustered from their trip down into the depths of the building, not used to so much exercise after his period of time spent comatose. Mycroft peered down at his brother with an odd expression on his face, while John picked up the crutches from the floor and leant them against the wall.

“I’m sure you understand my precautions?” Mycroft asked, closing the door behind him. John nodded, and Sherlock just glared.

“I would have been perfectly alright.” He muttered.

“Can you be sure of that?” Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock sighed, and turned back to the observation window.

Four men were being led to into the adjoining room, all wearing grey slacks and sordid expressions. David Cubitt was led in first, followed by the younger Straker and then the older Straker, and then finally Ethan Slaney was dragged in, lip curled up in disgust. John’s hand curled into a fist unconsciously. All four men were lined up against the wall before being left alone.

Suddenly the door next to Mycroft opened and Lestrade stepped through, greeting them all in turn.

“Sherlock, I just need to you to clarify that these four men are responsible for your attempted murder, and incapacitation for me, and then this  whole situation can be…dealt with.” He finished with an uneasy glance at Mycroft, who smiled sinisterly.

Sherlock stood, uneasy on his feet, and John quickly handed him his crutches. Sherlock spent less than ten seconds staring at the men responsible for his near-death and coma, scrutinising them all though the glass. He spent the longest time staring at Slaney, who looked as if he knew Sherlock was there, a malicious smirk spreading across his face.

“Yes, that’s them.” Sherlock said bluntly, turning away from the window and hopping to the door without a second glance at his attackers, perhaps now at ease with the confirmation of the incarceration and failure, John thought. He himself certainly was, ready to leave this time in his life behind and head towards clearer skies.

“You know John; I believe this would make a promising blog post.” Sherlock commented later, when they were in the car back to John and Mary’s apartment.

“You think so?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, “Although the case itself seems to be rather straightforward, there are certain elements that might seem…appealing.”

John frowned, but he was good humoured, “You mean it revolves around you more than our cases usually do?” he asked.

Sherlock turned to him, nonplussed and frowning. “That’s what people enjoy about them, isn’t it? Me. You should call it ‘The coma case’ or something.”

John laughed, “Perhaps.” But no, he was not going to call it that, he was going to choose something suitably Romantic and ambiguous, something bound to make Sherlock sigh and roll his eyes.

Something like: ‘The Personal Storm of John Watson’ sounded suitable.

Storm? Yes, very suitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the end!!! thank you for reading and please check out my other work if you have enjoyed this one :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Tumblr blog: thebritishbourbon.tumblr.com


End file.
